


How to Keep a Political Alliance

by dechagny



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Adopted Grantaire, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, American Politics, Dodgy French Translations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Enjolras Has Feelings, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire Gets the Love He Deserves, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oblivious Grantaire, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Red White and Royal Blue AU, Rivalry, Slow Burn, Tags Contain Spoilers, but only just, enjolras and grantaire are both dumbasses, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24131749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: Grantaire is the son of the President of the United States, and he really doesn't like the French King's youngest son, Enjolras. Enjolras doesn't like Grantaire that much either. When a small altercation between them ruins a wedding and gains media attention, they're forced to feign friendship to keep the public opinion high and the Franco-American relationship intact.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s), background Bahorel/Feuilly, background Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, background Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, implied courfeyrac/jean prouvaire
Comments: 212
Kudos: 387





	1. The Royal Wedding

As Grantaire, blurry-eyed and itchy where he had forgotten to shave, reclined in his second-hand desk chair, tapping his half-empty parker pen on the magazine in front of him, he couldn’t help wondering how life would have been different if the French Revolution had succeeded.

A lot would be different, he supposed, all over Europe. How could something as large as a full-scale, country-wide revolution not ripple out and touch the neighbouring European countries, and most likely, many countries beyond the continent too?

If the Revolution had succeeded, France probably wouldn’t be the stronghold it was now. Grantaire supposed that more wars would have been fought, and perhaps they wouldn’t be living in such a conservative world. But, crucially, he decided, the glacial eyes of Aurélien Antoine Enjolras de France, Fils de France, and Duke of Normandy wouldn’t be staring at him from the cover of a French gossip magazine that was affectionately calling him “The Last Royal Bachelor.”

If Grantaire squinted and leaned back enough, he could make out the ghostly shadow of the face of the young Duke’s eight-times great-grandmother, Marie Antoinette. They had the same porcelain skin, delicate nose, and full lips. They even shared the same aloof and untouchable expression that lends itself so well to oil paintings.

He was brought out of his daydreaming by the unpleasant knell of his own mobile ringtone. Grantaire sighed and padded barefoot across the garish carpet to answer the phone from his pillow.

“I knew you’d still be up,” Cosette said without as much as a hello. “You have a terrible sleep schedule.”

Grantaire smiled and flopped backwards on the bed, his back clicking pleasantly into the new relaxed position. “You do realise you’re awake too, don’t you? Why are you ringing me, anyway? You’re literally down the hall.”

“I’m about to get ready for bed and Dad asked me to remind you about the Dauphin’s wedding tomorrow,” she said simply. Obviously, he couldn’t see her, but Grantaire could hear Cosette’s knowing smile in the cadence of her voice, and see her neatly threaded eyebrows raised expectantly behind her Dolce & Gabbana glasses.

“Fuck,” he groaned, using his free hand to rub at the stubble on his chin. “Is that really tomorrow?”

Cosette snorted. “No, I decided to lie about one of the biggest events of the year to piss you off,” she said dryly.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I forgot,” he whined. “I got side-tracked.”

“Side-tracked by what?” Cosette asked. “Throwing darts at a photo of the Duke? Speaking of whom, can I get my copy of _Voici_ back?”

“I’ve been trying to write my essay for class actually,” Grantaire sighed. “It’s been slow going. Which one’s _Voici_ again?” he asked through a yawn.

Their Friday evening media catch-up had become a weekly tradition shortly after their father had become President. Cosette would come to Grantaire’s bedroom with a stack of the week’s magazines and newspapers in one arm, and a cup of his favourite coffee – one sugar, a splash of milk, and a pinch of cardamom – in the other. They would lounge on the sofa with popcorn and jelly sweets, scan the gossip pages for mentions of them or their Dad, laughing at the lazy journalism and the absurd stories that had sprouted from nothing except a slow news day.

Only last week there was a rumour that Grantaire was dating independent senator, Éponine Julia. He snorted his coffee and choked for twenty minutes at that one. It was amazing to Grantaire that any woman seen going out for coffee or lunch with him was his girlfriend until proven otherwise.

“You know which one it is,” she said. “Don’t think I didn’t see you _accidentally_ drop it and then _accidentally_ kick it under your bed. You have to be nice to him tomorrow, by the way.”

Grantaire quickly sat back up, the curls of his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I object to the accusation of theft,” he smirked, his gaze automatically darting to the magazine. “But the idea of being nice to him for twenty-four hours is genuinely repulsive.”

“You’re repulsive,” Cosette responded with an air of fondness. “Look, just stick next to me or Dad and you won’t have to worry about it. If he speaks to you, be cordial, say hello, and then swiftly excuse yourself to talk to someone else. Got it?”

He sighed dramatically. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it for you and Dad.”

“Good,” she said, laughing through a yawn. “Now get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too, I suppose,” he said, feigning reluctance.

“You’re a dick,” Cosette answered before hanging up, robbing Grantaire of his moment to retaliate.

Grantaire grinned and chucked his phone back on the pillow. The Duke of Normandy was still staring at him from his desk – proud, impossibly chic, and sporting unblinking, judgmental eyes.

_God_ , Grantaire was glad he only had to be in the same room as him for a few hours. The arrogance and coldness of the man infuriated him.

He slipped on his trainers, picked up the magazine and then grabbed his jacket from the back of his sofa. On his way past Cosette’s room, he slid the magazine under her door and made his way to the Truman Balcony.

The night air was crisp, silent, and studded with a thousand tiny stars. He wondered if he’d ever get used to experiencing beautiful nights like this, on this spectacular balcony, in this unbelievable building. He wondered, too, if he’d ever get another four years to _try_ to get used to it. The idea that, come the end of the year, he might never again get the opportunity to sneak onto the roof and read the graffiti left by Alice Roosevelt filled him with fear. It always felt somewhat calming when he traced his fingertips over the messily etched words, the world a dizzying seventy feet below him:

ALWAYS HAVE AN ACCOMPLICE.

He took a grateful breath and sat on his favourite patio chair – the one with the not-too-plump but not-too-flat striped seat cushion – and pulled his packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. The flame from his lighter made his fingertips tingle.

If he was totally honest, Grantaire never expected to become the First Son of the United States. That’s not to say that he didn’t have faith in his father, because of course he did. How could he not? Jean Valjean was the kindest, most compassionate and assiduous man he had ever had the pleasure to meet – and he was proud to call him “Dad.” How could the rest of America not be as taken with him as he was?

It’s just, if he expected and truly believed that his Dad would become president, it meant having to accept that he himself would be thrust into a limelight he wasn’t comfortable with or ready for.

Three years later and still the mere thought of conducting interviews, being photographed for magazines, and being followed by paparazzi was enough to make him want to throw up. He was ridiculously glad that Cosette was there to be an anchor to his wildly thrashing thoughts in the hours and days following the election and inauguration.

All he remembered from those early days was the blinding flash of cameras, a sea of mangled voices shouting their names, a renewed interest in his adoption, Cosette’s hand on his as the same personal questions were thrown at her, and later, their father’s calming words in his ear.

“Remember, it’s your life and your past,” Valjean said, his hands squeezing Grantaire’s tense shoulders. “You don’t have to comment on it if you don’t want to, and I won’t comment if you don’t want me to. Only you get to decide what people know, and I hope you know that you have my support no matter what.”

Grantaire smiled gratefully up at his Dad, wishing he didn’t already have so many worry lines around his honest eyes. “I know. Thank you…but we don’t need to worry about it,” he added casually. “I’m sure Cosette will come for any journalist who even attempts to dig into the adoption without permission.”

Valjean had let out a throaty laugh at this and patted Grantaire’s shoulders. “I think you might be right there. We’re incredibly lucky to have her.”

“We really are,” he agreed. “Don’t tell her I said that though – I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Grantaire took a long drag on his cigarette end and flicked the butt over the balcony, watching it float on the wind for half a second before it fluttered to the grass below. He took another cigarette and lit it. It was better to get all the smoking out of the way now – he could picture the bitter stare from the Duke of Normandy if he dared turn up to the French Royals’ fancy-ass palace reeking of smoke. It would probably be even worse if he snuck out of the reception to smoke in their pretentious, perfect garden. Maybe he would do it anyway and stud the precisely shaped hedges with as many cigarette butts as he could.

Would desecrating part of the garden count as treason? He guessed there was only one way to find out…and he should probably go and pack for it.

* * *

“How’s your French?” Cosette asked without looking up from her laptop, far too absorbed in writing her guest article for _Vogue_.

Grantaire wrinkled his nose and gazed out the plane window. Another addition to his list of things he would never get used to: having a private plane and experiencing weekly luxury travel. Growing up as a troubled child in a care home in the arse end of Texas, this was something he wouldn’t have thought possible for him.

“Ça va faire. It’s enough to get me by at the reception and call the Duke an asshole in a language he’ll understand.”

“Grantaire,” Valjean said firmly as Cosette snickered across the aisle. “You will not call the Duke an asshole. If you really can’t control yourself, do it in Spanish and do it out of earshot of literally anyone.”

“But it’s not fun if I can’t do it to his face and so he understands,” he pouted, closing his copy of Comparative International Law with a bored huff.

“I don’t care if it’s not fun,” his father said. “If you cause a diplomatic incident then I might actually kill you. All you have to do is keep your big mouth shut and pretend the sun shines out of his backside for a few hours.”

“It’ll be easier to get him to sprout wings and shit gold,” Cosette said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose and ignoring Grantaire as he flashed her his middle finger.

Valjean brushed non-existent dust from his trouser leg just for something to do. “If you really can’t be civil, ignore him. It’s the Dauphin’s day after all and I doubt anyone would notice if you didn’t pay the Duke any heed.”

It had been years since Grantaire last met the Dauphin, Louis-Joseph Laurent de France. And, like his little brother, who Grantaire had unfortunately met multiple times, he wished the count would have stayed at one. He pitied the poor woman Louis was about to marry – he wondered if she knew how dull and rude both Louis and Aurélien really were.

He could remember Louis striding ahead of Aurélien to greet them on their first visit to France as the new First Family, both royals dripping in dazzling gold tones that Grantaire found grotesque to look at. Louis shook his and his father’s hand with a strong grip, then delicately kissed Cosette’s cheeks, having the decorum to pretend to be interested in them as they all exchanged pleasantries. Aurélien, on the other hand, copied his brother with an air of boredom and disgust. As he walked past Grantaire, he muttered something in French with a furrowed brow and looked over his shoulder to cast a final disapproving look at him with a curled lip.

“I’ll try my best as long as they try theirs,” Grantaire promised.

“I heard they spent over sixty thousand euros on the wedding cake alone,” their Personal Protection Officer, Bossuet, said from his position a few seats behind Cosette.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his broad chest, sinking further into the leather chair. “Ugh. The more I hear about these people, the more I hate them.”

* * *

The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles was already ornate in design without the addition of a grand table spanning almost the entire length of the room. Covered with a pure lace tablecloth that was weaved with the occasional golden thread, it matched the plethora of chandeliers suspended over them. Despite the frigid January sunshine streaming through the palace’s grand windows, every chandelier was switched on and emitting a gentle twinkling light you could barely see unless you were looking closely.

It was a pleasant enough ceremony but predictably stuffy and bordering dangerously close to tedious. Louis’ new wife, Manon, wore an extravagant gown that looked cumbersome on her slight frame – Grantaire thought the dress looked as if it had been modelled on the five-tier cake that he was sure was taller than her.

He sipped at his third glass of champagne, savouring the tart taste and the bubbles popping on his tongue, blocking out the orchestra as it came to the end of the happy couple’s first dance. The room erupted in dignified cheers and claps, peppered with the sound of camera shutters from the select paparazzi allowed to attend.

“Wasn’t that beautiful?” Cosette said wistfully to no-one in particular.

“They certainly look very happy together,” Valjean answered. “I would love to see either of you this happy one day.”

Grantaire said nothing, instead, he found himself staring at the Duke of Normandy as he confidently made his way towards them. His light, modern Rococo suit was tailored to perfection and fucking absurd. Behind him, the orchestra struck up a new song and guests began to fill the dance floor.

“Monsieur le Président, merci d'être venu aujourd'hui,” the Duke said in his lilting tone, extending his hand to Valjean’s.

“Merci de nous avoir invités. Ma famille et moi n'aurions pas voulu être ailleurs, Monseigneur,” Valjean answered before reacquainting the young Prince with his children.

The Duke took Cosette’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “It is a pleasure to see you again, mademoiselle. You look radiant,” he added, rolling his Rs in a way that struck at something deep in Grantaire’s core.

“Thank you, Monseigneur. It was a beautiful ceremony and I’m looking forward to the rest of the reception.”

He wasn’t looking at him but Grantaire could sense that the Duke was now casting his eyes over his fingers as they restlessly toyed with the rim of his crystal champagne flute. He couldn’t say how he knew – he just did. All Grantaire could think to do in response was stare at the Prince’s perfectly polished dress shoes. His own annoyed face stared back at him through the patent leather.

“Grantaire,” Aurélien said, his back tensing beneath his jacket as Grantaire finally looked up with a pinched expression. “I’m glad you made it,” he said, forcing an unnatural smile. “You look…” there was an awkward pause as the Duke attempted to find the appropriate words. “Well, you look…dressed.”

Dressed? Was that the best the Duke could come up with? According to every media outlet, Aurélien was one of the most charming men in France and the most eligible bachelor in Europe. He supposedly had women fawning over him wherever he went, but it was hard for Grantaire to understand why.

Sure, he was tall and pleasant of face with lips that were set in a natural pout. He had an elegant slope to his shoulders, and he carried himself in such a way that you might think he was floating at first. And yes, he had long luscious hair that was never frizzy and never had a strand out of place – even the baby hairs curled around his temples looked becoming beside his graceful features. All of this he had in his favour, and yet, all he could think to say to his American adversary was that he was dressed. It was good to know that there was a crack in his perfect exterior.

The corner of Grantaire’s mouth turned up as he shook the Duke’s hand. “Thank you, Monseigneur,” he said carefully, “but that was almost a compliment. You ought to be more careful – we wouldn’t want you to choke on your words in your attempt to be nice.”

Valjean spluttered on his drink.

Aurélien pulled his hand away from Grantaire’s like he had been burned and flexed his fingers at his side. “Duly noted.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Cosette. “Mademoiselle, would you care for the next dance?”

“I’d be delighted,” she said quickly. When he offered her his arm, she took it gladly and discreetly slapped the back of Grantaire’s head as they passed him.

The next song began with the delicate sounds of the harp before it was joined by the rest of the instruments in a swelling romantic waltz. The Duke held Cosette around the waist with one arm and gently took her hand in the other. He was smiling broadly as he led her around the room, expertly weaving them between the other couples and deftly steering her away from Manon when Cosette came close to stepping on her train.

Grantaire wondered why, out of all the women in the room and noble ladies whispering between themselves, watching the Duke with greedy eyes, he had to go and ask his sister to dance. He must have done it on purpose to piss him off. It was exactly the kind of thing he would expect from the obnoxious prince.

It was a kind of torture for Grantaire, but he couldn’t stop watching them. He even found himself grinding his teeth at the sound of the Duke’s laughter rising above the string instruments. Grantaire noticed that Aurélien was staring back at him as he and Cosette crossed the floor again in the opposite direction.

When the photographers began to take a special interest in Cosette, Grantaire grew exceedingly irate.

“Be calm,” Valjean told him, eyeing the tense set of his jaw.

“I am calm,” Grantaire answered unconvincingly. He gave his father a brief smile before sauntering off to one of the flashy champagne fountains at the cake table. Having two fountains really was an unnecessary extravagance – there was more champagne than the two hundred reception guests could possibly drink. Fortunately, Grantaire was thirsty and he really liked champagne.

If there was one thing about Versailles that Grantaire liked, he would say it was the painted ceilings. There were so many little details he loved that it was hard to count them – he made a mental note to try that style of art himself one day. With a cold drink in his hand and music playing in his ear, he could get lost staring at the intricate paintings above him for hours. He was disappointed when his quiet moment was cut short.

“Which part is your favourite?” The Duke asked, picking up a glass from the fountain and following Grantaire’s eyes upwards.

Grantaire shook his head and turned to Aurélien, cursing the sophisticated contour of his profile. It was almost – almost – a shame that Louis was the Dauphin instead of his brother; he would look exceptional on the currency.

He shook the thought from his mind and instead said, “I take it you’ve finished using my sister for your PR opportunity?”

“You’re reading too much into it. I would have been photographed with any of the ladies here,” the Duke pointed out. “And I’m sure I’ll be pictured with many more of them as the afternoon goes on.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Sure, but why pick out my sister first?”

The Prince brought his glass to his lips and took a long sip. “Because Cosette is a captivating woman. She is extremely kind and is always a delight to talk to, which is more than I can say for you. You could stand to be more like her, you know.”

“I guess it makes sense that you would want me to act like her,” Grantaire smirked with a nonchalant shrug. “Your family is so inbred that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be around a family where everyone has some semblance of individuality.”

The Duke of Normandy laughed from deep in his belly but stopped as abruptly as he had begun. “That’s a good one. How long did it take you to come up with that? The whole flight over here?”

“My humour is instantaneous,” Grantaire said. “Speaking of being inbred, I’ve been meaning to ask, is Manon your cousin? I can only imagine she is. You’ve gotta keep that bloodline pure and whatnot. Does she have a younger sister that you’re destined to marry in a few years so you can complete some creepy royal ritual with your brother?”

The Prince pulled at the collar of his crisp shirt. “I think you’ll find that Manon is the only daughter of our father’s close friend, the Count of Champagne.”

Grantaire smiled and took another look at the fountains. “That explains all the champagne then.”

“Exactly,” Aurélien said, a small smile playing at his mouth. “Even the cake is covered in champagne buttercream.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” Grantaire answered, shaking his head. “This whole event is one of the most ridiculous and ostentatious displays of wealth I’ve ever seen,” he admitted, glad the alcohol was acting as a bolster. “The cake, the champagne, the, quite frankly, ugly wedding dress, the fucking insane seven-course meal…I hate to think how much all this cost. Here’s a fun question: to the nearest million euros, how much of your people’s taxes have been used to pay for this wedding whilst they experience another year of austerity, just to keep you in gold fringe and private orchestras, Aurélien?”

The Prince took a deep breath and set his glass of champagne on the table. “It’s Enjolras.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The only people who call me Aurélien are my father and brother…and the media when they can’t be bothered to use my titles anymore,” he explained with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Everyone else calls me Enjolras.”

Grantaire downed the last of his champagne and crossed in front of him to put it back on the table. “Well, _Enjolras_ ,” he said, savouring the name. It was as tart as the champagne. “Where is your father? I’m sure good King Louis-François will be happy to answer my question about his people if you aren’t.” He began to stride across the Hall before being stopped by a firm hand around his wrist.

“Oh no you don’t,” Enjolras said authoritatively. “You’re tipsy and you’ll come to regret it if you speak to my father in the same tone you speak to me.” He gripped Grantaire’s wrist tighter.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Grantaire asked.

“Neither,” replied the Duke with the familiar glare he exhibited on the front of _Voici_. “It’s a friendly warning.”

Grantaire stared back at Enjolras, looking him square in the eyes for the first time that afternoon. In the magazine, Enjolras’ eyes were a light blue that almost glinted sky grey. In person they were a warmer ocean tone and fiercely expressive – in comparison, his own deep brown eyes felt ugly.

“Let go of me,” he said, quickly glancing down at Enjolras’ hand before pushing him away himself.

There was a pause.

“You have no right to shove me, especially not in my own home,” Enjolras said coldly, being careful to keep his voice low and even. “How dare you?”

Grantaire’s body had an annoying habit of acting before his brain could tell him otherwise – as a result, he shoved Enjolras again. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Stop it,” Enjolras told him, a fire beginning to burn behind his charming façade. “You’re causing a scene. I’m going to walk away now – you can come and apologise to me once you’ve calmed down.”

“I am calm!” Grantaire found himself insisting once again. Now it was his turn to catch the Prince around the wrist.

Everything that came next happened in a confusing blur of champagne and buttercream.

One of them shoved the other – there was a small grapple, the sliding of smooth patent leather on sleek marble, and the sickening crash of thousands of crystal glasses. The cake wobbled, tilted, and then careened off its stand, the huge weight bringing the table down with it. The thunderous crack and the following explosion of layers upon layers of genoise sponge and heavy cream echoed around the hall just as loudly as the shattering glass.

The orchestra came to a grinding halt, the paparazzi’s cameras flashed excessively, and Manon screamed into her husband’s shoulder.

“Look at what you’ve done!” Enjolras cried through a sea of cake, attempting to wipe champagne from his eyes and hair, only to smear sponge and blood across his face. “What have you got to say for yourself?!”

Grantaire looked around the room from his spot on the floor, one foot caught around the leg of the upturned table. He had a cut on his cheek to match the one Enjolras had on his hand. There was not a single person who wasn’t gawking at them with a mixture of horror, anger, or shock. Even his father looked furious - and Grantaire hadn’t seen that look on his face since an invasive journalist tried to publish an exposé on his birth parents.

He gave Valjean an apologetic look before shrugging and laughing, licking buttercream from his own wrist. “Let them eat cake.”


	2. The PR Plan

The newspapers and magazines slammed on the solid table with an almighty thwack. The two half-full glasses of water jump in surprise.

“Are you trying to give me a fucking aneurysm?” Musichetta asked, her nostrils flared like a bull. “These are just some of the headlines I passed this morning – god fucking knows how many more there are.”

Grantaire stared down at the front pages in front of him.

ROYAL RUMBLE: Prince Aurélien and FSOTUS slug it out at Royal Wedding.

“LET THEM EAT CAKE” MOCKS GRANTAIRE VALJEAN-FAUCHELEVENT.

THE 65,000 EURO CHAMPAGNE SUPERNOVA.

Every article and printed cover was accompanied by a picture of Grantaire and Enjolras sitting in crushed cake and shards of glass, each of them with their suits crumpled and stained - a globule of cream stuck to Grantaire’s left eyebrow. The memory of it tingled at the fresh cut on his face.

He looked up at Musichetta and pushed the magazines away. “Was it your idea to have this meeting in the Situation Room?” he asked, attempting a futile laugh.

Musichetta and his father, who was sitting across the table, didn’t laugh - they looked at him with tight lips and frustrated glares. The leather of Grantaire’s chair squeaked as he shifted under the weight of their disapproval. He wasn’t sure where to look – the disappointed glower of his father stung more than he had expected, and Musichetta’s apoplectic rage made him feel like he’d be immediately vaporised if he dared meet her eyes.

Technically, he wasn’t afraid of Musichetta, his father’s Chief of Staff – she talked a big game, and, besides his father and sister, she was the only one who didn’t stand for his shit, which he appreciated. Beneath it all though, there was something soft and loving about her. But this situation was new territory and he didn’t know how she’d react.

It was the steely silence of his Dad that worried him the most. Valjean was usually incredibly understanding – he was one of the first people to comfort him when things went wrong for him – he was often poised to offer Grantaire sage advice in the aftermath of his own hubris. This time, there was nothing. It was like he had become a statue, and Grantaire found himself inwardly begging his father to say something – anything at all.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Grantaire,” Valjean said finally, picking up a copy of a French newspaper. The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig. “’A source at the Royal Wedding reception claimed that the Duke and First Son were seen arguing moments before the incident,’” he read in a monotone voice. “’Another insider reports that Grantaire and Aurélien’s feud has been burning for the past three years, and has reached a point where they can barely stand one another’s company even at the smallest of international events. It was only a matter of time before Grantaire took the American approach and inflicted violence.’”

“It was an accident!” Grantaire interrupted. “I didn’t do it on purpose and I certainly never inflicted violence on anyone.”

“Be quiet, Grantaire,” Valjean told him, his voice a calm before the storm. “’It’s likely that the rift between these influential sons is the cause of the distant relationship between President Valjean’s administration and the monarchy.’” He flung the newspaper on the table and leaned forward. “It’s bad enough that you were seen arguing and helped cause thousands of euros worth of damage, but then to sit there in the wreckage and mock one of their ancestors? You’ve gone too far this time.”

Grantaire swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. “I’m sorry – I thought it would lighten the atmosphere…but I can see now that it was misjudged.”

“Well, there’s an understatement!” Valjean sighed.

“I completely take responsibility for my comment,” Grantaire said. “But I refute that I was violent and caused the accident. We just…fell.”

Valjean nodded. “As your Dad, I get that. As the President, I almost want to throw you off the Truman Balcony. Look, accidents happen but you don’t need to make them worse by opening your loud mouth. What were you even fighting about?”

Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to look anywhere but his father’s face. “Well…I asked him how much money they’d taken from taxpayers to pay for the wedding and how that was impacting his people, but he wouldn’t answer me.”

“Oh, Grantaire, that’s not our fight,” Valjean said sympathetically.

“Shouldn’t it be?” he challenged. “Shouldn’t we be calling out injustices where we see them? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Valjean inclined his head and gave his son a soft smile. “I’m glad that you’re standing up for what’s right…but I know you’re smart enough to know there are better, more efficient, ways to go about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, gazing at the waxed surface of the mahogany table.

“I accept your apology,” Valjean said kindly, “But it’s the Royal Family you have to apologise to now.”

Grantaire smiled slightly, glad his father’s rage seemed to have subsided without any real consequence. “You want me to write an official statement for the public and then private apologies to the family?”

“No,” Valjean said, opening his large, brown leather padfolio and pulling out some hastily typed documents. “Perhaps against our better judgement, we’re sending you back to Versailles to make up with the Duke.”

Grantaire’s stomach turned to stone and his mind filled with TV static. “You’re doing what?!”

“Musichetta is going to brief you on the rest,” Valjean told him, laying out the documents for her. “I’m too busy to go through this with you right now.” He got up from his chair, taking his folio with him. As he walked past Grantaire, he dropped a kiss on his head. “You’re an idiot and I love you.” He left without another word.

“I hope you know that I’m not going to be as nice as him,” Musichetta said shortly, falling into the President’s vacant chair to scoop up the files left behind.

Grantaire held up his hands in surrender. “Trust me, I never expected you to be.”

After checking everything was in place and nothing was missing, Musichetta slid the two files to Grantaire. One was labelled ‘Terms of Agreement’ and the other ‘Duke of Normandy Fact File’ – Grantaire flipped through them with a heavy hand. “Why do I need these?”

“I spent all night speaking with the Royal Family’s PR team coming up with a plan to get all this ironed out,” she began, her large beaded earrings clicking together with every slight movement of her head. “We’re going to make it look like your fight was a huge misunderstanding and that you’ve been friends for years.”

He tried to speak but nothing would come out except garbled nonsense.

“We all decided it was the best way to make both sides look good,” she continued. “On this trip, you’ll be doing an interview together and appearing at a few events to parade your friendship for the cameras.”

The stone in Grantaire’s stomach had started to crumble, making him feel nauseous. “You’ve never met Enjolras – he’s completely repugnant and he’s the last person I would ever want to be friends with. He’s the last person I’d ever want to _pretend_ to be friends with.”

Musichetta pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. “Grantaire, I need you to understand something very important,” she said slowly. “I couldn’t give a single fuck what you want. Whilst you’re in Versailles, and whilst the cameras are on you, you will act like the man is fucking Apollo reincarnated. In private, you can write smack poetry about him, or whatever it is you kids do, all you like.”

“Literally no one does that,” Grantaire said, immediately regretting it as Musichetta flashed him a look that said, ‘I’m going to kill you and I won’t bother making it look like an accident.’

“I need you to read both of those files carefully,” she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the folios in front of him. “Because if you don’t, and this entire plan goes tits up, you’ll be the one who has to explain to your Dad why you’ve put his re-election campaign in jeopardy and tried to start a personal war with France, okay?”

Grantaire nodded and chewed on the dry skin flaking from his bottom lip. “Understood.”

“Good,” Musichetta said, her shoulders finally beginning to relax. “The Terms of Agreement explains what’s needed of you and the usual legal stuff, whilst the fact file is to help you get to know the Prince, so you aren’t caught out in a lie.”

“I take it Enjolras has a file on me too?” Grantaire asked, perusing the folder and pulling a face when he read that Enjolras’ favourite food is poached scallops in white wine.

“Unfortunately,” Musichetta sighed. “I ended up getting the intern to write it because it was depressing me too much.”

Without attempting to suppress it, Grantaire let out a proud, sharp laugh. “That’s fair. Okay, I’ll follow the plan to the letter, but I can’t promise I’ll have fun doing it.”

“Good,” she said, exasperated. “None of this is supposed to be fun.”

* * *

When Grantaire stepped into the living room with the fact file tucked under his arm, he found Cosette lying on the sofa in her favourite pink jumper, a pair of leggings, and fuzzy socks. Her hair was piled messily on top of her head, which, in turn, was lying in the lap of the Vice President’s son, Marius. He was absently playing with the loose strands of Cosette’s hair, looking uncomfortably warm in his full suit and tie as they watched the TV.

“What’s the occasion?” Grantaire asked Marius as he jumped into the armchair, his legs dangling over the arm. He placed the file in his lap to begin his second day of tedious Enjolras studying.

“I had a meeting,” he shrugged. “The usual.”

Cosette muted the television and sat up, swinging around on the sofa. “My mom stopped by,” she said with a smile. “She brought us some homemade cookies and wanted me to tell you that she found your cake quip hilarious.”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire said, raising his brows. “Is she still here?”

“Nah, she had to go to work but promised she’d visit again tomorrow.”

Fantine was in the unique position that she was one of the few people in the world who was, at present, allowed to come and go at the White House as she pleased. Even before the family moved into their new home, she came to visit Cosette almost daily.

On the day he was elected, Valjean offered Fantine the opportunity to live with them but she graciously declined, saying that he had done too much for her already and she would be far more comfortable in an apartment nearby.

“Would you like a cookie before we eat them all?” Marius asked. “They’re chocolate chip and hazelnut.”

Grantaire waved his hand. “No, it’s okay, thanks. Musichetta might scalp me if I get even a crumb on this,” he said, lifting the folio.

“What is it?” Cosette asked.

“It’s a stupid cheat sheet about Enjolras,” he sighed. “It’s ridiculously dry and most of it can be learned from Wikipedia or magazines anyway,” he lamented, throwing the folder on the coffee table. “Anything that doesn’t fall into those categories is so trivial that’s actually boring me to tears.”

Marius reached out to take the file, his hand floating unsurely over the pages as though someone might snatch it from him. “We can help you study if you like?”

A light switched on in Cosette’s eyes, making them as wide and bright as her smile. “Yes! We can turn it into a game so you’re more likely to pay attention.

“What kind of game?” Grantaire asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

She grinned, steepling her slender fingers together. “How about for every fact you get wrong, we get to drop one of your cigarettes down the garbage disposal? You know, so you don’t die before Musichetta can kill you when this all goes terribly wrong.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and groaned. “I’d rather die than do this.”

“Tough,” Marius told him, loosening his tie. He turned to a random page in the file. “What’s his favourite sport?”

“Skiing in the Alps,” Grantaire answered with a frown, “like all fucking European rich kids.”

“Correct!” Marius cried. “You get to keep a death stick. Okay, who is his best friend?”

“Hugo de Courfeyrac - goes by Courfeyrac - heir to the Cœurfeyrac Chocolate Company. They met whilst Enjolras was studying International Affairs and Development at Université PSL.” Grantaire said, heaving a sigh. “Even his major is boring!”

Marius knitted his eyebrows together. “Aren’t you majoring in something similar?”

“Yes,” he admitted begrudgingly, “but everything is dull when he does it.”

The papers rustled as Cosette seized them from Marius’ hand, claiming it was her turn to ask the questions. Marius simply smiled fondly at her enthusiasm and let her take them.

“What are the names of his pets?”

“Trick question,” Grantaire said, smiling broader when he saw Cosette’s triumphant smirk begin to deflate. “He doesn’t have any pets because he’s allergic to fur and feathers.”

Cosette clicked her tongue. “Damn, I thought I had you with that one. Okay, here’s an easy one: tell us about his parents.”

After forcing himself to sit in his chair properly, he rests his elbows on his knees and allowed his eyes to flutter closed. He pictured Louis’ square-set chin and the tragic queen’s vacant stare. “His father is King Louis XXIV who ascended to the throne in 1992. His mother was Marguerite Marie, the daughter of a knight. She worked as an aeroplane stewardess until she became engaged to Louis. She passed away six years ago.”

“See, you know more than you think,” Marius said cheerfully. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly this weekend.”

Deep down, Grantaire knew that was probably true, but he still wished his dad and Musichetta _had_ thrown him off the balcony after all.

* * *

There was a satisfying crackle under Grantaire’s boots as he stepped off the plane and on to the city of Versailles’ snowy ground. The sky stretched a woollen grey as far as the eye could see, punctuated with tawny sunlight in the wispy gaps of the clouds. Even in his heavy pea-green coat, the air caused Grantaire’s skin to prickle.

He and Bossuet were swiftly ushered into a black luxury sedan that was parked beside the plane. A man with short, dark hair was already in the backseat, tapping away at his iPad. He didn’t look up as the two arrivals shuffled into the empty seats beside him. The man’s suit was a plain royal blue and his tie had a light silver paisley pattern that seemed to blend into his dreadfully bright white shirt. Even Bossuet seemed intrigued by his unexpected presence.

“Um…bonjour?” Grantaire said, tilting his head to try and get a good look at the man’s face. All he could see was the wire rim of his glasses.

“Bonjour, Messieurs,” the man said, reading a new message that had pinged up on his tablet. “Excuse my rudeness but things are quite busy, as you can imagine.”

Bossuet nodded. “You’re not part of the security team, are you? I don’t think we’ve met.”

Eventually, the man looked up to reveal his charming smile and large, shadowy eyes. “I’m Combeferre – the Duke’s…how do you say…” he paused and made a vague gesture with his hand, “assistant? That’s the best way I can describe myself.”

“Oh…” Grantaire said. “Where is Enjolras then? He didn’t want to greet me as soon as we touched down?” he said, only half-joking.

“No, he didn’t,” Combeferre said plainly with a small shrug of his shoulders. He leaned forward and picked up his satchel to remove a neatly put-together file, which he handed straight to Grantaire. “We need you to sign this. Your lawyers have already looked over it and they’re satisfied.”

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

He was no stranger to NDAs – ex-girlfriends, one-night stands, and even some of his friends had been made to sign them. Grantaire too had signed them for certain events and trips abroad, but the size of this agreement seemed excessive. It wasn’t like he was going to go around discussing everything about this weekend anyway. Once it was over, he didn’t want to think about Enjolras, his family, or Versailles ever again, let alone talk about them.

“Really?” Grantaire asked, signing the document regardless with the silver pen proffered to him by Combeferre.

“We have to protect the Duke’s private life where possible. The family’s reputation is far too important to risk.” Once signed, Combeferre tucked the pen back into his blazer pocket and slid the NDA into his bag. “Whilst here, you’ll be staying in the Queen’s Apartment- “

“You mean, Queen Marguerite’s old room?” Grantaire asked, his eyes widening. Like the rest of the world, he’d heard that the queen had passed away in her sleep, and he didn’t much like the idea of sleeping in a bed someone had died in.

“No,” Combeferre said, itching his top lip to hide his mirth behind his hand. “The Queen’s Apartment hasn’t been used by a queen since the 1920s. We use it to host visiting dignitaries…and now you.”

A strangled laugh escaped from Bossuet’s throat as Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “ _He_ told you to say that, didn’t he?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” Combeferre said, turning his attention to his tablet as another alert came through. “You’re going to be very busy tomorrow, and everything needs to run on time. At 9:30 you and the Duke will be sitting down for an exclusive interview with _Prestige_ magazine. You’ll have accompanying photographs taken at 11. After lunch, you and Enjolras will be driven out to Paris to make an appearance a chocolate festival hosted by Courfeyrac, and then it’s a quick stop at a hospital before we ship you back to America.”

Grantaire smiled. “At least the chocolate festival sounds fun.”

“Musichetta asked me to remind you that you shouldn’t be having fun,” Combeferre said. He peeked through the window and adjusted his tie. “We’re here. Enjolras will meet you with his PPO, Bahorel, and you’ll have a brief press opportunity before you’re escorted into the palace.”

The car came to a halt and Grantaire could see the gaggle of paparazzi through the window. They were huddled a few metres away, most of them ripping off their gloves to get a better grip on their cameras.

A burly man stepped towards the passenger door, his impressive ginger beard and moustache on the cusp of swallowing his face. The beard was neatly trimmed whilst the moustache was expertly waxed into the handlebar style.

“Bienvenue!” he said jovially as Grantaire and Bossuet emerged from the car. He shook each of their hands enthusiastically, his smile protruding from beneath his thick beard. “We’re looking forward to having you here,” he said, suddenly pulling Grantaire into a hug. “But,” he muttered into his ear, “if you shove the Duke again or cause any trouble…I’m going to tackle you to the ground and put you in a headlock so tight you’ll think your head will pop like a cork from a bottle.”

Bahorel let go of Grantaire, still smiling broadly. He seemed to smile wider, if that were possible, when he saw the look of horror on the American’s face.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very intense?” Grantaire asked.

“Everyone I’ve ever met,” Bahorel told him as Enjolras, a vision in red, began to approach them.

His _rouge_ winter coat was made from thick wool and accented with a velvet collar and high notch lapel. It looked a little too tight on his chest, but it may just have been the black turtleneck jumper underneath distorting his figure. His blonde curls were casually tied back with a matching black velvet ribbon. Grantaire almost couldn’t believe it – his hair was tied with a ribbon like a fucking Disney prince. Could Enjolras get any more ridiculous if he tried?

“Bienvenue, Grantaire,” Enjolras said with a smile that was almost real, extending his hand. “It’s nice to have you back at Versailles.”

“It’s a pleasure to be back,” he answered, shaking his hand with a tight grip. The photographers were shouting at them but Grantaire only understood ‘cake’, ‘history’, and ‘welcome.’

“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” the Duke asked, slipping his hand away again and shoving it into his pocket. The bitter wind had given his cheeks a delightful rosy tint.

“Would you rather be doing literally anything other than this, too?” Grantaire asked through his teeth, already tired of pleasantries. “Because I can’t think of a worse way to spend a weekend.”

Enjolras kept his features free from emotion, though there was a sparkle of something indecipherable in his eyes. “Yes, this is objectively terrible for us both, but it will be over by this time tomorrow.”

“Thank fuck,” Grantaire sighed, looking over his shoulder at the cameras. A flash momentarily dazed him. “How long do we have to stand here for this?”

Enjolras peered over at Combeferre, who was paying close attention to the paparazzi response and shaking his head. “Until Combeferre tells me the press have what they need.”

It took all of his strength not to outwardly groan, so instead, Grantaire did his best to impress the media by flinging his arm companionably over Enjolras’ shoulders.

“What are you doing?” hissed the Duke, turning his face away from the cameras.

Grantaire flared a genuine smile and squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder. “We’re supposed to look like we’ve been friends for years, remember?”

“Yes, we need to look like friends,” Enjolras whispered in agreement, “but I do not want to look like one of your American _frat boys_!”

Perhaps it was the fact a prince just said ‘frat boy’, perhaps it was the strangely attractive, annoyed crease that had appeared on Enjolras’ forehead, or perhaps it was hypothermia setting in and playing tricks on him, but Grantaire felt a glow of warmth in his belly that made the situation far more bearable.

The paparazzi went wild with their cameras, trying to get the best picture of their relaxed and companionable pose. Some even started getting ready to leave after getting several front-and-centre shots. Most satisfyingly of all, Combeferre smiled from the corner of his mouth and nodded at the security teams. In a flurry of kicked up snow, they were finally led side-by-side through the golden gates, up the well-tended garden, and into the palace.

* * *

The Queen’s Bedchamber was aggressively pink.

The walls were a mix of soft blossom tones, intricate floral designs, and light wood wainscoting. Every colour, pattern, and decorative element was rimmed in a gaudy gold – even the ceiling was covered in the metallic hue. It was so adorned that Grantaire wasn’t entirely convinced that the ceiling wouldn’t collapse under the sheer weight of it. The crystal chandeliers hanging low either side of the canopied bed looked dangerously placed too.

Grantaire shifted under the covers, sinking further into the marshmallow mattress. He rubbed at his itchy eyes and pulled himself up, feeling like he was wading through quicksand as he did – the more he moved the more trapped he felt under the heavy sheets and oppressive splendour. Sleep would certainly be impossible here.

He slipped from the high bed and sensed the unpleasantly cool, hard floor on his skin despite his thick socks. Pulling on his checkered dressing gown, he scanned the bedchamber and wrinkled his nose. There were multiple doors out of the room, but he only knew where one of them led. He’d been warned that the palace was like a maze and so he shouldn’t go wandering off, but if he was honest, getting lost between the hundreds of rooms was a more enticing prospect than staring at the tacky, migraine-inducing drapes.

The door he opened revealed a plush living room that was decorated in a subdued blue and silver scheme. It still had an air of golden grandeur but at least it didn’t look like a Rococo stereotype had thrown up all the place.

In the centre of the back wall, an imposing portrait demanded his attention. The man in the picture was shrouded in white and royal blue fur-lined robes, his dark eyes a striking presence against his pale dress and pallid skin. Grantaire reached out to touch the portrait - the thick ridges of paint pricking at his fingertips. Though slightly worn with age and faded, Grantaire could imagine the awe it would have inspired when new.

A hollow creaking from a door behind him made Grantaire jerk his hand back. Heat flooded his face as he turned on the spot, feeling like a child who had been caught touching the exhibits in a museum.

“Bossuet?” he asked, creeping towards the sound. “Is that you in there? You don’t need to keep checking up on me…”

When he pushed on the door, he found Enjolras standing in the small room wearing navy pyjamas in a soft, jersey material, his face half-illuminated by moonlight. Beyond him, floor to ceiling bookshelves in a refreshing mint and yellow-gold complexion decorated all four walls. The parquet floor matched the rest of the Queen’s Apartment.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Grantaire said, his shoulders slumping as he tapped on the door handle. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras smiled apologetically and gestured to the small pile of books in the crook of his arm. “I left some stuff here yesterday and I thought you would be asleep.”

“I couldn’t settle,” he answered. “I was just exploring and admiring the painting in…” Grantaire glanced behind him. “In whatever that room is called.”

“The Salon des Nobles,” Enjolras said. He was looking at Grantaire expectantly.

“Oh…right.” There was a pause as Grantaire nodded slowly, unsure what to do or say next.

Enjolras said nothing either – he just took a small step forward, clutching his books tightly to his chest, and peered over Grantaire’s shoulder. In turn, Grantaire looked behind him again, trying to see whatever the Duke was looking at. There was nothing there, so he turned back.

His face crumpled when he realised that Enjolras was actually waiting for him to move out of the way.

“Thanks,” Enjolras said with an amused smile, watching Grantaire back out of the little library. “I’ll leave you to admire more of my ancestors’ portraits,” he added, closing the door behind them. He moved towards a further door that Grantaire had yet to open.

“Where does that go?” Grantaire asked.

“It’s the Guard Room, where the Queen’s guards used to sleep,” he explained. “But if I go through there then I can go the long way to my room,” he finished, then quietly cleared his throat.

“The long way?”

“The quicker way would mean cutting directly through your bedroom,” Enjolras told him with a shrug. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me walking in unannounced.”

Grantaire swallowed to moisten his dry throat. The knowledge that there was a shortcut to Enjolras’ bedroom through his own was…well, it was…distracting. He wondered how many other shortcuts and secret passageways there were around the palace. It made him feel like someone could always be watching him.

“Is your bedroom as bold as mine?” Grantaire asked abruptly, looking for any excuse not to go back to bed.

Enjolras shook his head and smiled, his loose ringlets falling over his shoulders. “Mine is painted white and decorated a little simpler, thankfully. It was originally Louis XV’s daughters’ room,” he explained. “He was the king in the portrait you were admiring.”

Grantaire nodded. “Huh…do you have one?”

“A portrait?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “I feel like there are portraits everywhere. I’m assuming everyone in your family gets one.”

Enjolras laughed quietly. “No, I don’t have one. It only tends to be the Kings and Queens who get them, now that photography exists and all. No-one needs oil paintings of their kids,” he smiled. “Father and Maman have a portrait each and Louis-Joseph will get one when he’s king…it’s highly unlikely that I’ll get one.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don't want one,” Enjolras said earnestly, looking more at ease than Grantaire had ever seen him. “Are you prepared for the interview tomorrow?” he asked suddenly. “You’re not going to misquote any more of my relatives, are you?”

“I can’t even think of any other misquotes,” Grantaire snorted, “so I think you’re safe.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” he answered, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Would you like to practice what we’re going to say tomorrow? It might make the charade more convincing.”

Grantaire frowned and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “How can we practice? We don’t know what they’re going to ask us…”

A clock chimed the hour somewhere outside and Enjolras looked towards the window, his body tensing again. “Of course. That's fine, it’s late and I should go anyway…Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, watching Enjolras amble towards the door. He was only halfway over the threshold when he turned back.

“I liked your green coat, by the way. Green suits you,” he said before escaping through the door and closing it softly behind him.

Grantaire watched the door for another minute before plodding back to his bedroom.


	3. Potter and Malfoy

The morning came all too quickly. Cold light streamed through the open windows and managed to permeate the heavy curtains around his bed. A muffled voice, speaking in fast French that Grantaire couldn’t quite grasp, could be heard through the main door leading out of the bedroom. Grantaire groaned and pulled the duvet over his head, praying the world would go away if he couldn’t see or hear it.

Unfortunately, this didn’t work and Grantaire was soon shepherded out of bed by Bossuet and Combeferre, shoved into a pair of camel chinos and a matching suit jacket, and was marched to the north wing for breakfast.

As he entered the Porcelain Dining Room in a fug of exhaustion, Grantaire was struck by how aptly named it was. The walls were a smooth white, accented with the traditional gold-tone that was weaved through every other room in the palace. Featuring powder blue curtains, and matching chairs around a square walnut table, porcelain figurines ornamented each flat surface to create something more akin to a museum exhibition than a working dining room. The only thing that spoilt the view was Enjolras sitting at the table, in a grey suit like his own, sipping on his morning coffee as though he were completely alone.

“You know,” Grantaire said, sitting down at the place set for him, “in the words of Ant-Man from FRIENDS, I’m trying to remember the last time I opened a door and you weren’t there.”

“It’s strange,” Enjolras agreed, gently placing his cup (that Grantaire also assumed was porcelain) on the table beside his plate. “It’s almost like I live here.”

The scent of warm, freshly baked bread and tart jam had enveloped Grantaire’s senses. He greedily took a slice from the serving plate and spread on a thick layer of sharp strawberry jam before taking a large bite, jam sticking to the corner of his mouth.

“I suppose you do,” he said, wiping his lips with a linen napkin. He poured black coffee from the cafetiere into his mug and added milk from the matching milk jug. After taking another bite of his bread and jam, he washed it down with the coffee as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks. The taste of his drink made him look at the Duke with a frown. “There’s cardamom in this.”

Enjolras finally met Grantaire’s eyes, dipping a croissant into his coffee. “Yes,” he said flatly. “It was on your fact sheet as how you take your coffee. I made sure the kitchen made it to your specification.”

“Well…” Grantaire said, taking another sip, mostly to bide his time as he decided what to say next. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful of pastry. “Just because we’re… _rivals_ … that doesn’t mean we can’t give you a warm welcome and provide home comforts.”

“Was Combeferre gently taunting me and Bahorel threatening me part of the traditional warm welcome you give to everyone? Or was that a special treat for me?”

Enjolras smiled as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “That was just for you.”

“I thought so,” Grantaire said, copying Enjolras by dunking a croissant into his coffee. “Speaking of warm welcomes, are the King and Dauphin not joining us? I suppose I ought to apologise to them for appearance's sake.”

“No,” Enjolras said, monotone, sitting up straighter in his chair. “No, they’re taking breakfast in the Post-Hunt Dining Room. They’ve made it abundantly clear that they don’t want to see you.” He stared at his plate, pulling his croissant into pieces. “You have no idea how angry they still are.”

Grantaire tapped his fingers against his mug. “Well…let’s hope today goes well and we can make it up to them.”

“Yes. Let’s,” Enjolras said before excusing himself from the room.

* * *

Their interview was to take place in the Room of Abundance in the State Apartment, just beyond the King’s private rooms. A blonde woman with a notebook and tape recorder stood as Grantaire and Enjolras entered. She quickly straightened her black pencil skirt and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Bonjour, Madame Dupont,” Enjolras said cheerfully, kissing the woman on both cheeks. “Thank you for coming. May I introduce you to my good friend Grantaire?”

Grantaire offered her his most charming, debonair smile. Unsure whether to shake her hand or kiss her, he decided to do both, inwardly cringing as she gave him a slightly puzzled look. “It’s nice to meet you, Madame,” he said quickly.

“Likewise,” she said in her heavily accented English. “Thank you for giving _Prestige_ this exclusive.”

Enjolras smiled and gestured to her chair. “Please, do sit down,” he said before sitting on the sofa opposite her. Grantaire perched next to him, being careful not to sit too far apart or too close. Across the room, he could see Bossuet and Bahorel murmuring to one another.

“Let’s start with the crux of the issue,” Dupont said, clicking a button on her recorder. “In your own words, what happened at the wedding?”

“It’s a boring story, I’m afraid,” Enjolras said with fake, saccharine laughter. “We were catching up with another when I slipped on something. Grantaire tried to catch me and we both ended up falling over.”

Madame Dupont nodded and smiled. “We’ve all had accident like that, haven’t we? Some sources claimed that you were arguing before the accident happened – is that true?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said quickly, delighting in the panic dancing in Enjolras’ eyes. “We were having a friendly disagreement over what was better: American pancakes or crêpes. This guy,” Grantaire said, gently nudging Enjolras with his elbow, “has never tried a stack of American pancakes with butter and maple syrup! It’s an outrage.”

Enjolras shook his head, his laughter becoming more strained. “That’s because they sound disgusting. Give me a Crêpe Suzette any day of the week.”

Fortunately, Madame Dupont looked as if she was enjoying this angle and scribbled something in her notebook. “Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Let’s not start all that up again! How long have you been friends?”

“Three years,” Enjolras said, glancing at Grantaire. “We met when Grantaire and his family came to Versailles on their maiden state visit as the First Family.”

“We’ve stayed in touch ever since,” Grantaire added, unable to block the memory of Enjolras’ disgusted stare on that day.

The rest of the interview featured questions about the suits they were wearing during the wedding, the ones they wore now, and why, if they were such good friends, they rarely saw each other and weren’t following one another on social media. Enjolras, thinking on his feet, claimed that they each had private accounts for close family and friends and were too busy in their respective countries to spend time together.

After Madame Dupont was shown out, two stylists swept into the room – both with belts that looked more like gun holsters. Their weapons of choice: brushes, face powder, and hairspray.

Once their hair had been set and their faces made smooth and matte, a no-nonsense photographer arrived with his assistants. They began setting up their own lighting, quietly discussing where to put what and which angles would make their subjects look best.

They were thrust into friendly positions on the sofa; Grantaire putting his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder, and later, them standing back-to-back in mirroring poses. The whole thing felt somewhat awkward and ridiculous. Each of them close to laughter at how unnatural their poses were, especially when Grantaire was told to stand on the coffee table. By the time the photographers had what they needed, Grantaire had decided he was dangerously close to having fun.

Thankfully, it wouldn't last.

* * *

Donning their pea-green and rouge winter coats once again, they stepped out of the palace and into the snowy courtyard, following Bahorel and Bossuet to the waiting black sedan. Combeferre walked beside Enjolras, holding his iPad in one hand and discreetly handing something to him in the other. The Duke thanked him with a nod and swallowed whatever he had been given – Grantaire pretended not to notice.

The short journey into Paris was quiet. Grantaire sat between Combeferre and Enjolras, Bossuet was in the front passenger seat and Bahorel drove. Enjolras spent the whole trip texting. Moments before they arrived at the chocolate festival, he said, “Courfeyrac is looking forward to meeting you for some reason. Please don’t do anything to upset my actual friends.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Grantaire said dryly.

Through the car window, Grantaire could see the crowd and photographers waiting to greet them. They shouted excitedly at the car in a mix of French and English; some of the public were even waving little American flags. Bahorel and Bossuet got out first, ushering the throng further back to create a walkway for the guests of honour. A roar made the three in the backseat lean forward to look through the windshield – a young woman was being asked to put down the sign she'd brought with her, but she refused.

NEVER COMPROMISE WITH TYRANTS. I VOTE FOR DEATH OF THE TYRANT.

The words had been decorated with gold glitter and the sight of it made Grantaire’s intestines twist; the glitter was what made it so haunting. Feeling awkward and grossly underprepared, though for what he wasn’t sure, Grantaire busied himself by texting Cosette, trusting that Bossuet and Bahorel had everything under control.

Eventually, the woman was told she could keep her sign, but the press was asked to move so the cameras wouldn’t pick up on the offending statement. Bahorel opened the passenger door and the three of them emerged to a mix of cheers and boos. The two sons waved diplomatically, both glad that they were used to public criticism and knew how to ignore it.

Despite being familiar with sneers, Grantaire couldn’t help but sneak glances at Enjolras’ stony face - he looked like a two-dimensional version of himself. A flat and amenable creature who could only smile, wave, and occasionally shake hands with a small child who still idolised the idea of being a Prince or celebrity.

“Liberté, égalité, fraternité!” cried a group towards the back of the crowd, raising their fists to the air. At their words, Enjolras’ jaw tensed, and he smoothed out his wrinkle-free, crimson coat. He stared straight ahead like a deer caught in the headlights – startled and uncertain, wondering who would make the first move – him or the people.

“Do you get this a lot?” Grantaire asked Enjolras quietly, waving at a little girl who had made an American flag out of paper, cotton wool and pipe cleaners.

“What was it you said at my brother’s wedding?” Enjolras answered through his teeth. “The people ‘experience another year of austerity to keep me in gold fringe and private orchestras.’ Why don’t you tell me if I get this a lot?” he spat.

Bahorel and Bossuet led them towards a large tent in the middle of the festival as Combeferre followed behind them all, speaking in a low voice in his earpiece. Grantaire couldn’t understand a word.

Soon the air became rich with the scent of sugar and bitter cocoa, the bad feelings melting away. The cool sky was made warm by the hot chocolate station – creamy vats of drinking chocolate were being stirred gently by hand. As a couple ordered a cup each, the chocolate was decanted into sturdy takeaway cups, thick and heavy. It was then topped with whipped cream and cherry sauce. Grantaire’s stomach rumbled.

A man came running towards them, his blue faux-fur coat looking enviously warm. Their security teams jumped out of his way as he scooped Enjolras into a tight hug, practically spinning him on the spot.

“You're here!” he said excitedly before pulling back to look at Grantaire. “You must the PR nightmare I’ve heard so much about.”

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, grinning sheepishly. “I guess that’s me. Courfeyrac, right?”

“Who else would I be?!” he said proudly before pulling him in for a hug too. “Enjolras said it would be more convincing that you guys were friends if we looked like friends as well,” he explained quietly. “Don’t worry though – I have nothing against you, so we could be friends in the future!”

“Good to know,” Grantaire said, somewhat baffled but smiling, nonetheless.

“So, I saw a few signs…” Courfeyrac began, turning back to Enjolras with a sympathetic look. “We tried to keep as many of the protestors back as possible but…anyway, how are you doing?”

“Fine,” Enjolras said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Just give me some chocolate and everything will be alright.”

“Now there’s something I can help you with!” Courfeyrac grinned, linking his arms with Enjolras and Grantaire as he pulled them towards his stall, kicking up snow as he went.

Piled high on the trestle table were wide trays of delicate confections. Little squares of chocolate topped with dried raspberry pieces, small cupcake-shaped sweets with a swirl of white chocolate and finished with half a cherry. Bright macarons filled with chocolate ganache, truffles rolled in chopped nuts, and large marshmallows encased in impossibly smooth chocolate. Grantaire’s mouth tingled with anticipation.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” said the curly-haired man on the other side of the table. His face was covered in star-like freckles - the constellations around his mouth and eyes met as he smiled. “Welcome to Paris.” He used a pair of tongs to hand Grantaire a truffle.

“Thank you,” he answered before popping the chocolate on his tongue and letting it melt slowly, thinking he could die right now and he wouldn't care.

Courfeyrac grinned and stole some chocolate for himself. “Feuilly is one of the finest chocolatiers we have,” he said proudly to Grantaire.

“I try my best,” Feuilly said, handing Enjolras a truffle with a small bow of his head. “Thank you for coming, Monseigneur,” he added to him.

Enjolras shook his head, devouring the chocolate. “Don’t be silly - you know I’d never miss this. I trust Courfeyrac isn’t being a terrible boss?” he added playfully.

“You would be the first to know if he was,” Feuilly promised with a laugh.

“I’m an absolute delight to work with,” Courfeyrac said, playfully flicking Enjolras’ ponytail. “Are you okay here on your own?” he asked Feuilly. “I’m going to show these guys around the rest of the stalls.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, handing a chocolate each to Combeferre and Bossuet. “You guys have fun. It was nice to finally meet you, Grantaire!”

“You too,” Grantaire said, watching as Feuilly handed Bahorel the largest chocolate. In return, Bahorel gave him a lingering smile before realising that Courfeyrac and Enjolras were already on the move and he had to jog to catch up to them. Feuilly laughed and wistfully turned to his next customer.

It seemed to Grantaire that he was being given free chocolate at every stall – not that that was a bad thing, but he swiftly became queasy. He hoped that putting the chocolate into a gift box he had taken from another stall wasn’t coming off as rude. Perhaps, if the box survived the flight home, he would give them to Cosette. Or to Musichetta as an apology for being a pain the ass.

When the comprehensive tour of the stalls had been completed and a cup of the hot chocolate Grantaire saw on arrival had been placed into his hands, Courfeyrac insisted that they all took a picture together for their social media accounts. Arguing that it would be beneficial to all three of them, Enjolras agreed and Grantaire felt as if he had no choice.

Courfeyrac threw his arms around Enjolras and Grantaire’s shoulders, each of them trying to steady their mugs of cocoa. Putting on their largest smiles, Combeferre took the photo and promised to send it to everyone later.

For them, the festival was over already as they were led back to the sedan. Bahorel barrelled ahead as another cry came from somewhere in the crowd: “You’re complicit in the resurrection of the Ancient Regime!”

Enjolras took a sharp breath through his nose and kept his head high until he got into the car, where he proceeded to slump into the backseat and rub at his temples.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Grantaire asked him.

“No,” Enjolras snapped. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be with _you_.”

Grantaire felt like he had been slapped and threw his hands up. “Alright, fuck me for trying to be nice, I guess.”

“Yes, _fuck you_!” Enjolras shouted. It occurred to Grantaire that he'd never heard Enjolras swear before. Despite the ferocity behind the words and the targeted aggression, Grantaire still thought the words sounded gorgeous falling from his lips. “Fuck you for causing a scene at my brother’s wedding. Fuck you for getting me involved in this fucking PR shit, and fuck you for pointing out the flaws in my family when I already get it every time I leave the fucking palace.”

Combeferre reached out and touched Enjolras’ knee with his fingertips. “That’s enough,” he said coolly. “It’s not an ideal situation for anyone, but we all need to remain calm so we can get through today as quickly and smoothly as possible.”

Enjolras nodded and took a few calming breaths before looking at Grantaire with a surprising amount of sincerity. “I’m sorry for snapping. That wasn’t appropriate of me and I appreciate your concern.”

The rest of the journey passed in uncomfortable silence. For the first time, Grantaire was relieved when they pulled up outside the hospital. He had never been more grateful for the clinical smell of disinfectant and carbolic soap as he walked through the door, or for the squeak of sensible rubber shoes on vinyl. Somewhere down a corridor, a machine let out a constant beat akin to the reassuring thud of a steady heart.

They swept through the corridors in a burst of handshakes with doctors, nurses, and patients, stopping for the occasional performative photograph that turned Grantaire’s stomach more than the over-indulgence in chocolate.

Grantaire got into politics to help people. It was useful that his father had gotten into politics first because it meant he had a path to follow where the weeds and thorns had already been cleared. He wanted to help people as his Dad had helped him. He knew how incredible it felt when someone genuinely cared and wanted to do good for someone else. He had picked International Law as his major because he wanted to understand how other countries operated and because he wanted to make waves wherever he could…but this? Doing nothing but posing next to children wearing wires and tubes, making small talk with doctors and carers at the end of their third 12-hour shift that week? It felt like a bastardisation of everything he stood for.

A child in leg brace asked Grantaire what it was like to live in the White House and who the most famous person he knew was, meanwhile, Enjolras moved to the next patient with a robotic smile.

He spent so long talking to the girl, Alice, about the White House, Grantaire didn’t notice that Enjolras had disappeared completely until Alice grew over-tired and started to drift off. Bossuet was stood by the door, keeping his vigilant watch as always, but everyone else had vanished.

“Where did they go?” Grantaire asked Bossuet quietly.

Bossuet pointed to the wall. “Next room down.”

Before he could enter the room, Grantaire could hear Enjolras’ now-soft voice through the wall, he was alone too, except for Bahorel standing a few feet away. Grantaire kept himself hidden on the other side of the wall. Through the gap between hinges of the door, he could see Enjolras sitting on the edge of a little boy’s bed. The boy couldn’t have been older than seven at most, and he had a tube coming from his nose that was attached to his face with a plaster bearing the Gryffindor house crest.

“My friends all think I’m a Gryffindor,” Enjolras told the boy conspiratorially. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m a Slytherin.”

The boy gasped. “Really?”

“That’s not a bad thing though,” Enjolras said. “It means I’m ambitious, resourceful, determined, and I value fraternity and brotherhood. Generally, those are good things. Do you like being in Gryffindor? I hope Harry isn’t giving you too much trouble.” he teased.

“I think it’s great,” the boy answered. “My mummy says I’m the bravest in the house.”

“I'm sure she’s right,” Enjolras told him. “Harry could definitely get some tips on bravery from you.”

“Who’s your favourite character?” the child asked, picking at his scratchy bedsheets.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose in thought. “Draco.”

“But he’s one of the bad guys!”

“He started out that way,” Enjolras conceded. “Maybe not on purpose, though. He was born to a father who had a lot of influence in certain circles, and Lucius had his own thoughts and beliefs. Draco was raised into those beliefs and was expected to behave in a certain way because of who his Dad was, but, in the end, he was just a scared kid.” He suddenly shrugged like he didn’t care. “That’s what I think anyway.”

The little boy nodded solemnly. “I get scared sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” Enjolras said earnestly. “We all get scared from time to time. But I think scared can be a good thing too.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. To me, being scared means you care about something enough that you’re afraid to lose it. It’s okay to be scared, but remember that you’ve got the heart of a lion – just like everyone else in Gryffindor.” Enjolras reached out to squeeze his hand. “Who’s your favourite character?”

The boy nodded as though it were the most important question he had ever been asked. “Ron,” he decided. “He’s funny and smart and good at sports. He gets scared but he’s brave, too, just like me.”

“That’s a great choice,” Enjolras told him. “I bet you’ll be exactly like him when you’re older.”

Grantaire’s cover was blown when Combeferre returned to the ward, takeaway coffee in hand. “It’s good to see you’re on time,” he said to him before popping his head around the door and gesturing to Enjolras that it was time to leave. The Duke said a heartfelt and cheery goodbye to the boy and followed Combeferre, Bahorel, and Bossuet down the corridor.

“You like Harry Potter?” Grantaire asked, walking beside him. “I’m surprised. I thought it would be too childish for someone like you.”

Enjolras shrugged. “I grew up on it like everyone else our age. It’s hard not to like it, in some capacity, when it formed such a big part of your childhood.”

“Draco though?” Grantaire said sceptically. “Your whole explanation…isn’t all a bit-“

Several things happened in quick succession at that moment. There was a shout somewhere further down the corridor, followed by a series of suspicious and unexpected bangs that struck the fear of God into everyone, and Bossuet and Bahorel shoved their charges into the nearest room whilst urging them to stay down.

Grantaire fell face-first on the ground, Enjolras landing on top of him with a rough thud. The door closed and the two foes found themselves alone, lying in a dark janitor’s cupboard with the damp smell of old mops in their nostrils.

“Fucking fantastic,” Grantaire said bitterly. “I can’t believe I’m going to die in a cupboard with you, of all people!”

“Shut up! You’re not going to die,” Enjolras said, shifting over Grantaire to get into an empty space beside him.

“Will you get off me, your _lordship_?”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Enjolras grunted, finally rolling into the tiny gap between Grantaire and the wall. “There. Happy now?”

“Obviously not,” Grantaire huffed, trying to get into a more comfortable position, grossly aware of the damp patch his hand was in. “I’m going to get shot and it’s all your fault!”

“You’re not going to get shot,” Enjolras cried. “Even if you were, it still wouldn’t be my fault!”

Grantaire shifted his arm into a more awkward position to get it out of the puddle, but only managed to jab his elbow into Enjolras’ ribs. “No one ever attempts to shoot me during presidential appearances but now that I’m hanging out with a _royal_ …”

Outside there was more shouting and the frantic squeaking of shoes as people ran up and down the corridor. No sign of an all-clear.

“No one has ever tried to shoot me before either,” Enjolras told him, jamming his own elbow into Grantaire’s side.

“Ow!” he yelped. “What was that for?! More importantly, what the fuck are your elbows made of? Broken glass?”

“You did it to me first!”

“On accident,” Grantaire huffed.

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t care if it was an accident – I still don’t want you hitting me in the fucking ribs! I’ve had it up to _here_ with you today.”

“All you’ve done is be fucking rude to me, even when I was trying to be nice – and you make it super hard to be nice to you, by the way – so what’s your problem? Didn’t your mother teach you how to have manners?”

Anger flashed behind Enjolras’ eyes and he slammed his hand against the wall. “ _Didn’t yours?!_ ”

All the oxygen seemed to get swallowed up as the words left Enjolras’ mouth. There was a second of stunned silence followed by the furious rustling of chinos and a knee pushing firmly into Enjolras’ chest, winding him. Grantaire climbed over him completely and pinned his arms to the ground by the wrists, Enjolras’ head smacking into the linoleum as he was thrown back again in the ensuing struggle to get free. The Duke tried to throw Grantaire off him once more, but he was dizzy and firmly trapped against the floor and Grantaire’s thigh.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Grantaire spat, gripping Enjolras’ wrists tighter.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras answered, sounding strangled. He found it hard to breathe with Grantaire’s knee pressed into his sternum. “I didn’t think - I’m sorry. Jesus, let go before you kill me!”

Grantaire reluctantly released Enjolras’ wrists and slumped off him, sitting with his back to the wall as Enjolras backed away as much as he was able, alternating between rubbing his wrists and chest.

“I’m sorry too,” Grantaire said with a frustrated sigh. “I didn’t mean to fly off the handle.”

Enjolras nodded and pulled the ribbon from his hair. “It’s okay,” he said, running his fingers through the tendrils, smoothing out evidence of their scuffle. “I should’ve had a little more forethought and tact.”

A small smile played at Grantaire’s mouth as he watched Enjolras’ deft fingers retie his hair. “At least I know you’re not perfect.”

“I never claimed to be,” Enjolras pointed out. “If you thought I was, that’s on you.”

“So…Draco is your favourite character because you see yourself in him, right? Your dad’s a terrifying figure, you have a life already planned out for you, you’re expected to be like your dad…and don’t think I didn’t see how scared you were around the protestors,” he said carefully, adding a nonchalant shrug for good measure. “That’s why you lashed out at me in the car, right? That’s the Draco in you.”

The Duke laughed and narrowed his eyes. “Do you psychoanalyse everyone you dislike?”

“I didn’t,” Grantaire said easily. “You said and did all those things yourself.”

“I’m not ashamed to say that I do have a personal connection to Draco,” Enjolras said, straightening his spine. “I bet you saw yourself in Harry, though. The boy without parents who wanted a better life, who never felt like he fit in. The boy who found a new family, became a self-sacrificing idiot, and wanted to help and protect others.”

Grantaire let out a triumphant wail. “Ha! You’re wrong!” he exclaimed, “I’m not a self-sacrificing idiot,” he said before begrudgingly admitting, “yeah…the rest was right though, I guess.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Enjolras mused, raising one pale eyebrow. “Even our favourite characters hate each other.”

“You realise this pretence has to carry on after today?” Grantaire forewarned. “It’s going to look weird if we never see or speak to each other again after this. We’re in this for the long-haul now.”

Enjolras smiled to himself, tilting his head to stare at a spider crawling along the ceiling. “I’m trying not to think about that. The concept makes me want to cry.”

“On paper, we should be great friends,” Grantaire said. “We have enough shared experiences and things in common to found a friendship on something.”

“Our fathers are both heads of state,” Enjolras agreed.

“Not to psychoanalyse,” Grantaire continued apologetically, “but I think we both have some unresolved mommy issues.”

Enjolras nodded. “We both have an interest in international laws and affairs.”

“After bumping into you last night, I’m assuming we both have issues sleeping,” Grantaire said. “Why do we hate each other so much?”

“Let’s not get into that,” Enjolras decided. “If we start delving into that conversation then we’ll end up in another PR disaster.”

Grantaire folded his arms across his chest and tapped his fingers against his tensed biceps. “You were a real dick to me the day we first met,” he explained regardless. “You looked at me and spoke to me like I was nothing,” he shrugged. “I was used to being looked at like that – being adopted, not white, and coming from a shitty background means you get that a lot…but I thought it would be different when Dad got elected, you know? I thought people would look at me like I belonged because Dad told me I belonged, but no. It may surprise you to know that some people _really_ don’t like the idea of me being the First Son.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said again, feeling like Grantaire’s knee was crushing his chest again. “I was judgemental of you and that wasn’t fair. I hate meeting dignitaries and attending royal events. I hoped that if I did them all terribly then I wouldn’t be made to do them, and it wouldn’t matter because Dad still had Louis to be proud of.” He looked Grantaire in the eye as much as possible in a dark cupboard. “I’m sorry for taking my bad feelings out on you when you didn’t deserve it…and for being a dick in general.”

“Reluctant truce?” Grantaire said, holding out his hand.

Enjolras nodded with an air of finality and shook his hand. “Reluctant truce.”

A shadow passed under the door and across the small glass panel inlaid in the top half of the timber. The door was wrenched open, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras cowering under the sudden onslaught of light.

“This looks cosy,” Bahorel said with a grin. “Up you get - it was a false alarm. Some kids were messing around and popping a fuck-ton of balloons.”

Back on the frozen steps of the hospital, waiting for another car to take Enjolras back the palace so Grantaire and Bossuet could take the sedan, Grantaire snatched Enjolras’ phone out his hand. He opened a new contact form and filled it out, all before Enjolras could get Bahorel to kick the shit out of him for stealing royal property.

“You now have my phone number and email address,” Grantaire told him, handing back the phone. “If we have to keep pretending to be friends for the foreseeable, it might be easier to arrange things directly instead of going through our people.”

Enjolras slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Good idea. Thank you.”

The new car crunched slowly over the snow and Grantaire stepped forward, taking gentle steps down the stairs. “Text me whenever, but no booty calls, okay?”

Enjolras let out a choked laugh, beginning to walk to his own car with Bahorel and Combeferre leading the way. “Trust me, _that_ won’t be an issue.”


	4. Grantaire Makes a Friend

For the first time in god knows how long, Grantaire’s Google alerts didn’t make him want to throw himself off a cliff.

FSOTUS AND DUKE OF NORMANDY FLAUNT FRIENDSHIP.

He read the article as he walked, dodging the uneven pavement slab without glancing up from his luminous screen. The photographs had come out well, especially the one of them and Courfeyrac at the chocolate festival. In the comments section, someone had asked “why does this look like a holiday card?? lmao”. Which was a fair point - they were all bundled up in warm coats, holding their steaming mugs of cocoa close, and surrounded by snow-topped market stalls. Underneath the comment, forum user Lomax81 had written, “get u a man that looks at you like the duke looks at grantaire tbh.”

On closer inspection, Grantaire could see what Lomax81 was talking about. He hadn’t noticed it at first, being too concerned with how he looked and wishing his smile wasn’t quite so lopsided. In the image, Enjolras had his head turned a little to the left, in the direction of Grantaire, smiling softly with gentle eyes. For some reason, Lomax hadn’t entertained the idea that Enjolras was smiling at Courfeyrac who stood between them, which would make more sense, what with them being actual friends and all, but Lomax wasn’t to know that of course. If Enjolras was, for some reason, looking at Grantaire, it was most likely because he didn’t trust him to take a good picture and wanted to keep an eye on him.

The security guard at the Dirksen Senate Office nodded a mistrustful hello as Grantaire slipped through the doors with a cheerful wave. The poor guard had long held the belief that Grantaire was the one who had orchestrated the vandalisation of one Republican’s office. Unfortunately for the guard, he couldn’t prove anything and would never be able to. Grantaire had made sure of that…not that he _was_ involved…

He had known this building inside and out since the day his dad was elected to the Senate – he’d wandered around, memorising every floor and every door with reverence, stepping quietly like a devout Catholic in a quiet cathedral. Grantaire still felt immense pride whenever he walked through the building’s corridors, imagining his own name on a shining plaque on one of the historic doors. He even loved the smell of the cheap, terrible coffee and warm printer ink that seemed to be soaked into every surface, and he couldn't wait to smell it every day.

Éponine Julia, an Independent from Vermont, was, at thirty, the baby of the Senate. Grantaire couldn’t have been more in awe of her if he tried. She had come from nothing, like him, and fought tooth and nail to her position to prove that she belonged; that she had something to contribute to society. To prove that she could do anything, to prove that people like her and Grantaire were worth something more than a sob story.

In an infamous interview, she claimed that not having parents was the best thing that could have happened to her because they only would have held her back. To her, her orphan upbringing meant she was freer to do as she pleased in this life than others. This opinion did not go down well with many Republicans and even some Democrats were quick to criticise. Still, she held her ground and that made Grantaire buzz with pride.

“Knock knock,” said Grantaire at her open door. Without waiting for a response, he sauntered in and threw himself into the chair opposite her desk.

She stopped chewing the end of her pen to give him a blithe look. “Ah, there he is, my rumoured boyfriend,” she smirked. “My one and only. The apple of my eye. The fire of my loins.”

Grantaire bit his bottom lip and made a grunting sound deep in his throat. “Oh, you know I love it when you talk to me like that, baby.”

Éponine snorted and tucked the pen behind her ear. “I don’t know how you manage it, but that gets creepier every time you do it.”

“I’ll stop doing it when you stop laughing,” he promised her. He leaned over the desk, and her children’s home reformation reports, to flick at the enamel pansexual flag pin on her lapel. “Nice.”

“Thanks, it’s new,” she said coolly, smoothing out her jacket. “But please never go near my boobs again or I’ll snap your hand off.”

Grantaire grinned sheepishly and saluted. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, falling back into the chair. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure anyway?” Éponine asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be kissing the ass of the French royals?”

“I came to visit you, my dear friend,” Grantaire insisted, feigning hurt. “I thought we could chat, catch-up, gossip, organise a lunch date to give the press something to talk about…maybe you could tell me if Mueller is thinking of endorsing Dad…”

“And there it is,” Éponine grinned. “I knew you wanted something.”

“We could do with another Independent endorsing us,” Grantaire shrugged. “I know it's still early days, but I thought you might know something about where he’s leaning.”

Éponine sighed and relaxed in her chair, mentally weighing up her options. She came to her decision within seconds, as they both knew she would. “Thénardier is doing everything he can to coax the centrists to him by poaching some of your proposed policies. If you want to grab Mueller, you might need to play Thénardier at his own game. As far as I’m aware, Thénardier isn’t moving much on his healthcare ideas and those ideas don’t match up with Mueller’s…if you really wanted to play that game, that might be a good place to start.”

Grantaire touched a hand to his chest. “It’s truly upsetting you’re not a few years younger because that might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

A sharp pain ran up Grantaire’s leg as Éponine gave him a hard kick in the shin with her pointed Borden flats. “I really hope for the sake of your Dad and Cosette that talk of politics doesn’t turn you on…that would make for some very unfortunate meetings at home. Speaking of sexy things and gossiping though,” she said coyly, “how was your weekend with the Duke?”

Grantaire pulled a face and gave a half-hearted shrug. “He had his people threaten me, we argued, I nearly choked him to death in a cupboard, the usual…”

“Sounds very homoerotic,” Éponine said, grinning at Grantaire’s frown. “Cosette told me about the magazine you stole from her with his face on it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted. “We were mentioned in an article and the magazine just so happened to have a photo of Enjolras on the cover.”

Éponine burst out laughing. “It was your media catch-up day. Every magazine you had mentioned you and your family…so the fact you took the only one with his face on it is interesting, that's all I'm saying.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You spent ages looking at the picture, getting lost in his eyes and brushing your fingers over his lips, didn’t you?” Éponine said, resting her chin on her hands. “Be honest. He’s exactly your type: ridiculously pretty, completely unattainable, and hates your guts.”

Grantaire took a deep breath and got up from his chair with a fake yawn. “I’d better be going. Thanks for your time and all…”

“Your silence damns you!” she called as he left the room.

* * *

Thénardier had been on their political periphery for a while now and Grantaire had a creeping, uneasy feeling about him. The guy seemed to have come out of nowhere in a flurry of cash and propaganda, and despite having a minimal voting record and exactly zero charm, many Republicans seemed to be obsessed with him. Little was known about his past and Grantaire could smell something fishy about it…but he felt like hypocrite judging him for that. He didn’t want others to know about his, either.

With a frustrated sigh at his coursework, Grantaire split his waning attention between the two articles on his laptop, not really taking in either: one titled “Who is Thénardier and can he really beat Valjean?” and another named “Louis XXIV: His contentious reign so far.” He kept flicking between the two until the words blurred and motion sickness set in.

Finally giving up on his research for the day, he got up and switched on his record player, a Christmas gift from Valjean, to play the vinyl already resting on the turntable: Wasteland, Baby! He removed the artist’s box that was caked in spilt paint from under his bed, and set it up on his dressing table, lining up his acrylics before making a makeshift palette from a section of old paint packaging.

There was no plan to Grantaire’s painting; no sketch, no ideas, nothing. He just threw colour on the canvas propped against his easel with reckless abandon – a dash of red there, a sweep of black here, a lick of pink underneath it, a thin line of gold there, there, and there too. He held his brush in his mouth as he picked up a sponge, beginning to dab at the edges of the painting with a light touch of brilliant white, blending the colours into one dazzling and vibrant focal point.

He had been working for an hour when the confident knock of his father rapped on his door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he called back, still holding the brush between his lips.

Valjean slipped in quietly, already changed from his dark grey suit into jeans and the orange jumper that Grantaire and Cosette both hated. “Hey,” he said, coming up behind Grantaire and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Looks good…different from usual style though,” he noticed, nodding at the easel.

“I didn’t know what to paint…” he said, putting down his brush and sponge. “I thought I’d try something more...experimental, I guess.”

“Something on your mind?” Valjean asked.

Grantaire shrugged casually. “Just the typical stuff. University, your campaign, Thénardier, all the shit that happened with the Duke, worrying about the future in general…”

“You carry too much on your shoulders,” Valjean said kindly. “You should look after yourself more and take a proper break from time to time.”

“I’ll take a break after graduation,” Grantaire said, mostly to placate his father.

“Come and take a little one now,” Valjean implored. “I’ve made enchiladas for dinner.”

“Alright, you've convinced me,” Grantaire said with a smile, following Valjean out of the room. He turned off the record player that had been silent for the last half hour as he went.

The table in their personal dining room was already laid. A steaming dish of gooey enchiladas sat in the middle with a crisp, cool salad beside it in the glass serving bowl that Fantine had bought for them when they moved.

“He’s alive!” Cosette teased, sitting down at the table and pouring herself a glass of water from the Britta. “You disappeared today.”

“I went to see Éponine this morning,” he explained, plonking himself in a chair and immediately helping himself to two enchiladas. He handed the serving spoon to his dad. “I can’t believe you told her about the magazine. She thinks I’ve got a crush on him now!”

Cosette fell into giggles, spooning salad on to her plate. “That’s what big sisters are for: teasing their little brother’s and embarrassing them in front of their friends.”

“You do realise I’m older than you, right?” Grantaire said flatly, pouring water for himself now. “Like, you _can_ count, yeah? I just want to make sure...”

“Yeah, but you were adopted after me,” Cosette said, taking the enchilada serving spoon from Valjean. “So, that negates your age and makes me the eldest.”

“You’re loving siblings,” Valjean said. “Does it really matter who the eldest is?”

“No,” Cosette conceded, “but I know it pisses Grantaire off when I say that, and that’s the bit that matters to me.” She grinned broadly as Grantaire rolled his eyes.

Valjean smiled from the corner of his mouth. “Be nice to your brother. Can you pass me the salad, love?” he added. “On another note, has anyone got anything new to report? I feel like I haven’t spoken to you both in ages.”

Grantaire nodded and swallowed a forkful of hot cheese. “I’ve been made the new president of Debate Club.”

“That’s great news!” Valjean said proudly. “That sounds like a role you were born for.”

“Great, now I have to live with _two_ presidents,” Cosette groaned good-naturedly. “Dad’s right though – it is a good role for you. We all know how much you love arguing with people.”

“No, I don’t,” he began, before clamping down on his tongue to stop himself from proving Cosette right.

Valjean smiled fondly at him before turning to Cosette. “What about you, sweetheart? What's new with you?”

“Well,” she said, sipping at her water. “I don't know if this really counts as being new with me, but I think Marius is going to propose on my birthday.”

There was a strangled noise followed by a hacking cough as Valjean choked on a tomato. Grantaire let out a sharp laugh and smacked him on the back until the offending ingredient was dislodged from his throat. “How do you know?”

“It’s only a hunch,” Cosette said calmly, mostly for Valjean's benefit. “I might be wrong…but he’s been acting weirder than usual lately. Like, he’s either stupidly happy or really nervous and he’s trying a lot harder to keep my birthday present a surprise this year. I mean, he’s usually terrible at keeping that a secret, so why is he being so coy about it now? Oh, he's started doing this thing where he keeps staring at me with this…creepy…look in his eyes. Plus, he keeps stumbling over his words whenever I bring up party plans, and whenever I’m over at his, he gets really antsy every time I get within, like, six foot of his desk and won’t let me open the drawer.”

Valjean nodded slowly and set down his knife and fork. “If he asks, are you going to say yes?”

A flush crept over her face. “Yeah, I am,” she said with an excited grin. “Oh, Dad, don’t look at me like that!” she cried, catching the mild distress in his features. “At Prince Louis’ wedding you said you’d be thrilled if we were as happy as him, and I am.”

Valjean gave her a smile and blinked back the tears forming in his eyes. “I know…I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”

Cosette got up from the table and came round to hug him. He clung to her tightly, pressing a kiss to her temple just as he used to every night before bed and every morning before school. “It’s okay, Dad,” she said soothingly. “I’m not engaged yet, remember? He might not even ask! And if he does, we definitely won’t be getting married for ages.”

“Hey, you’ll still have me, papá,” Grantaire teased. “I’m completely unmarriageable so you’ve got me forever.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile. “When we’re both old, we can sit in matching armchairs and yell at kids to get off our lawn together.”

Valjean laughed and looked between his kids with a smile that said he couldn’t believe his luck. “You have no idea how much I love you both.”

* * *

The first text came whilst Grantaire was sitting in an International Conflict lecture. It said, ‘ _I didn’t know you could swim,_ ’ and was followed by a photograph of a wolf-fish bearing its crooked teeth in its drooping mouth. A second text arrived a moment later. ‘ _This is Enjolras, by the way. Hi_.’

Grantaire grinned down at his phone, pleasantly surprised that Enjolras had decided to text him and was trying to be funny about it. He immediately saved his number under the name ‘The Puke of Normandy.’

‘ _Eat slugs, Malfoy,_ ’ Grantaire text back. ‘ _Hi._ ’

Another message came three days later as Grantaire was zoning in and out of a strategy meeting. It was a picture of Grantaire from the page of a crinkled gossip magazine, leaving the gym in sweats with a baseball cap pulled low over his features. ‘ _You look your best when no one can see your face. You should do it more often. xo_ ’

Laughing silently to himself, he texted back under the table, pretending to look interested in what his father was saying. ‘ _I’ll have you know that I did that so people wouldn’t get jealous of how gorgeous I am post-workout. I’m devastatingly handsome._ ’

‘ _You’re definitely a devastation so you’re right there._ ’

After a couple of weeks of occasional texting, mostly mocking one another in various paparazzi photos, Grantaire had discovered two things about Enjolras' texting habits. The first was that he could be quite funny when he tried – even more so when his jokes got lost in translation. He especially loved the simplicity of puns and as a result, Grantaire tried to shoehorn as many as he could into his messages.

The second was that he mostly texted when he was stuck in meetings or royal events that he had no interest in being at. Which was all of them. He had even texted Grantaire a photo of his own exhausted face in the middle of a knighthood ceremony, all trussed up in official garb and looking restrained.

Through the short messages they continued to exchange for a couple of weeks, Grantaire found himself learning more about Enjolras than he’d anticipated. For example, though Combeferre handled Enjolras’ schedule and generally stopped him from being an impulsive idiot, much like Musichetta did for him, they’re actually close friends and have been for years. Even on Combeferre’s days off, he actively chose to spend his time with Enjolras, and Courfeyrac, too. They played board games every Monday evening and went to a small café they all adored with Bahorel, Feuilly, and a few others, on Thursdays.

He also learned that Enjolras didn’t like skiing in the Alps. In fact, he didn’t like sports at all and did everything in his power to avoid playing or getting involved with them. It explained why Grantaire found skiing to be a stereotypical answer when reading his fact sheet – it was the first lie that Enjolras had come up with.

Now, Grantaire wouldn’t go as far as to say he _liked_ Enjolras, but he did appreciate his strangely sharp wit and looked forward to receiving his next put-down. Sometimes he considered doing something stupid in public just to see what Enjolras would say about it.

Whilst walking through the halls between lectures, whilst waiting in line for coffee at the independent place across the street from the park, whilst sneaking a cigarette on the Truman Balcony, Grantaire found himself checking his phone and hoping to see the little text bubble pop up, oddly disappointed when he found that it didn't.

Grantaire didn’t realise how much of his life he had shared with his enemy. It wasn’t until Enjolras casually asked how Cosette’s fashion blog was going, or he mentioned Éponine’s black cat, Poe, or that time he checked if Grantaire had finished his essay three days before the due date, did he realise how open he’d been.

One evening, they had a friendly, childish argument over who has the best friends when Enjolras sang the praises yet _another_ best friend; one of their gardeners, Jehan. When Enjolras had finished his speech, Grantaire couldn’t resist pointing out just how many of his friends worked for him in some capacity.

‘ _The fact you have to pay most of your friends speaks volumes about who you are as a person._ ’

‘ _That’s rich coming from the guy whose best friends are his sister and his dad’s best friend’s protégé_.’

It wasn’t a surprising revelation, but soon after that exchange, Enjolras revealed he wasn’t close to his brother. Louis-Joseph was hardly brought up when they spoke. There were no relatable stories forthcoming when Grantaire cracked jokes about Cosette or when he half-heartedly complained that she took the last doughnut again. When Louis _was_ mentioned, it was usually because Enjolras was genuinely upset or enraged by something he had done or said.

‘ _I’m sorry your brother is more of a dick than you,_ ’ Grantaire texted after Enjolras told him he’d just been on the receiving end of a belittling tirade. ‘ _I genuinely thought it wasn’t possible to exceed your level of dickery._ ’

‘ _His dickery is only a little worse than our father’s. You don’t know the half of it._ ’

‘ _Wanna tell me the half of it?_ ’

The text didn’t come for another twenty-eight hours, but when it did, Grantaire had to read it multiple times to check that he wasn’t dreaming. He even checked that the correct name was attached to the contact.

‘ _Remember those finances you mentioned at the wedding? Well, the three of us were discussing those, about Royal spending in general, our allowances, that sort of thing…and I said I didn’t want my allowance anymore because I’d been saving the money Mum left me. All I said was that the allowance could be used for something more worthwhile and could be funnelled into the public sector instead. The whole situation blew up in my face – it was like I had just declared war. Louis thinks I’ve lost my mind and the King agrees. So…lots of arguing here, I guess. I have both of them screaming in my ear._ ’

Grantaire sat up in bed, his eyelids a heavy weight, and switched on the bedside lamp. His thumb hovered over the call button for two minutes before it twitched enough to set the call going. Though it had only been several short weeks since his trip to Versailles, Grantaire had somehow managed to forget the sound of Enjolras’ soft consonants, rolling Rs, and musically stressed syllables. The lyricism of them made his stomach clench.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Enjolras said. “Isn’t it half three in the morning over there?”

“It might be,” Grantaire said, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It doesn’t matter - I have so many questions right now. Are you busy?”

“No, I’m just taking a walk through the garden,” he said. Grantaire imagined him walking along with his hand outstretched, brushing the leaves of the shrubs. “What questions can I answer for you?”

“First things first, you get an allowance?”

Enjolras laughed shortly. “Yeah…as King, our father gets to decide what he does with his… _earnings_ , for lack of a better word,” he sighed. “He chooses to give some of it to us each month, and before you ask, no, I will not tell you how much that is.”

“And you don’t want the money?”

“Of course I don't. That money comes from extorting the people, is the product and symbol of hundreds of years of oppressive rule, and you know, from a whole fucking colonial empire,” Enjolras said, revulsion dripping from his tongue.

Grantaire smiled to himself. “I’m almost impressed you feel that way. The more I talk to you, the less of a stereotype you become.”

“That’s why you don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“If you felt that way, why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me,” Grantaire groaned and laid back in bed again. “I don’t know…accuse…isn’t the right word…but…” he let out a frustrated sigh. “God, I don’t know. What I said at the wedding…”

Enjolras laughed, full, throaty and bitter. “I didn’t agree with you because we were at my brother’s wedding and we were around the press. Can you imagine how much bigger the scandal would have been if I had been heard renouncing or criticising my family at a royal event? A _familial_ royal event.”

“I guess…” Grantaire relented. “So, just _how_ angry was your Dad when you said you wanted to give up the allowance?”

“Pretty angry,” Enjolras sighed, sitting on a stone bench in the labyrinth. He looked up at the sky and watched a bird fly over the palace. “He started shouting and saying that the money and…and all of this stuff that came with it…the titles, the palace, the history behind it all…was my birthright or some shit and I couldn’t reject it…anyway, he’s disappointed in me, naturally.” He began laughing again and Grantaire wondered if it was a nervous tick. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I asked,” Grantaire pointed out. “Because you obviously wanted to talk about it.”

Enjolras was quiet for a moment and Grantaire wasn’t sure if he was still there. “Yeah, maybe…”

“Are you okay?” Grantaire pushed his hair from his forehead and listened to the distant birds at the end of Enjolras’ line.

“Yes,” Enjolras laughed. “Yeah, I’m fine…Thanks for calling, I guess. I should go and let you sleep.”

“Wait,” Grantaire found himself saying before he had a chance to think. “It’s Cosette’s birthday next week and we’re having a party…you’re welcome to come, if you want to.”

“Really? She wouldn’t mind me coming?”

“I don’t see why not,” Grantaire said, a smirk beginning to form. “I mean, she doesn’t think you’re a tactless, inbred, boring asshole so I think you’ll be okay.”

“Good point,” Enjolras chuckled. “Okay, sounds like fun.”

“I’ll text you the details,” Grantaire promised. “Night…morning…whatever.” He hung up quickly and smashed his face into the pillow with a tired groan.

* * *

The coffee, though bitter and burned from where Grantaire had gotten distracted checking his phone, felt like an elixir of life. He could feel it rejuvenating every cell in his body, making him feel like an actual human being, rather than a hollowed-out husk that had been stuffed with looming deadlines, and the deeply uncomfortable realisation that he had been just as judgemental of Enjolras as Enjolras had been about him.

He knocked his heel against the kitchen cabinet as he sipped at his coffee, grinning down at his phone. So taken with the screen, he didn’t notice Cosette come into the kitchen and pour herself a mug of coffee from the jug.

“Oh my god, this tastes like shit,” she said, screwing up her face. “Get your ass off the counter – that’s where we prepare food, you animal.”

“Nobody’s forcing you to drink it,” Grantaire pointed out, jumping from the counter with a satisfying thud that ricocheted up his ankles. He smiled at his phone again as a new message came through.

Cosette watched him from the corner of her eye as she poured the coffee down the sink. “You’ve been staring at your phone a lot recently,” she said innocently. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” he said, holding his phone close to his chest. “None of your business.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “Is it a birthday thing? Are you watching video compilations of Pedro Sánchez speaking multiple languages again?”

“I have literally never done that,” Grantaire insisted, glugging from his mug. “But if I had, I would feel no shame about it because the man has a very arresting presence.”

She shivered and started grinding new coffee beans. “I _wish_ you had been arrested when I caught you doing it the first time…but if it’s not that…” she gasped and turned, her floral silk robe billowing gracefully around her. “Please tell me you’re not texting Chelsea! You have that look on your face and I really don’t want you getting hurt again.”

“Oh, hell no, she’s the last person I’d be texting,” Grantaire assured her. He looked at Enjolras’ latest message: ‘ _I’m at the world’s most boring lunch and I’m afraid I might shrivel and die here. Please don’t let the press print lies about me._ ’ Another alert came through a second later. ‘ _Who am I kidding? You’d personally make sure they say as many ridiculous things about me as possible. I hope it’s worth it when I come back as a poltergeist to make your life hell._ ’

Cosette sat down at the dinner table, the beans forgotten. “Whoever it is is persistent.”

Grantaire nodded and fell into the seat opposite her, putting his lukewarm cup in front of him like a barrier. “If you really must know, it’s Enjolras,” he said with a shrug.

“Enjolras?” she deadpanned. “The Duke of Normandy? The guy you’ve spent the last three years hating and cussing out? _That_ Enjolras?”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “To keep up our friendship lie, I’ve invited him to your party. Is that okay? It’s fine if it’s not,” he added quickly, gesticulating wildly with his hands, still holding his phone tightly in his palm. “Trust me, I don’t mind telling him to go fuck himself.”

Cosette eyed him suspiciously and tapped her peach-tipped nails on the table. “It’s okay…he can come. Just…don't throw my cake at him.”

* * *

**The Puke of Normandy**   
  


_I don’t like your new girlfriend. She’s not invited to Cosette’s._

What are you talking about?

_“Exclusive Pictures of The Duke of Normandy’s cosy day out with cousin, Mademoiselle Héloïse.”_

You’re starting to get stale, Grantaire. Don’t you have any other jokes?

_I do, but that’s a classic and I would hate to let you down. It would be like Britney not singing Baby One More Time at a concert…I don’t think I have it in me to give you that level of disappointment._

I’m literally BEGGING you to let me down one last time, so I have a good excuse to never speak to you again.

_But gently bullying you gives my life meaning ☹_

Don’t you have anything better to do? A ratty paper here is claiming you’ve got Éponine pregnant. If that’s true, shouldn’t you be painting a nursey or building a crib right now?

_I just threw up in my mouth._

You’re so sexy. xoxo


	5. Happy Birthday, Cosette!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's a birthday-inspired chapter, that coincidentally, is being posted on my own birthday week! It's my birthday this Thursday the 11th, so do feel free to come and say hi to me on tumblr (@annaobyrne) or twitter (@bethany1marie) if you like. Anyway, now I've blown my own trumpet, on with the chapter! 
> 
> P.S. I realise this chapter is very dialogue-heavy - I'm sorry if it feels somewhat stilted because of that. But at least it prepares you for next week's chapter which is almost entirely dialogue...

“How do I look?” Cosette asked, slowly turning on the spot. She looked down at her midi dress and closely examined the hem of her denim jacket - the one she’d embroidered herself, and nibbled at her lip. “Do these boots match or should I switch to the wedges?”

Grantaire glanced up from his laptop to cast his critical eyes over her outfit. He squinted and shrugged. “You look fine. I mean, it’ll do, I guess.”

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Valjean said before she had the opportunity to panic. He kissed his daughter’s forehead and stared at her with clouded eyes, smiling wistfully and trying to hide the wobble in his voice. “I can’t believe how grown-up you are.”

Cosette grinned then stamped her feet like a tired toddler, wafting her hands in front of her face. Grantaire had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing.

“Don’t start, Dad! You’ll make me cry again!”

“Sorry, love,” Valjean said softly. He smiled though he was as close to tears as Cosette.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous and emotional,” Cosette said, rolling her eyes at herself. She picked up her cross-body bag from the armchair, checking that she had her hairbrush, lipstick, wallet, and phone. “It’s just a day out with Mom.”

Grantaire craned his neck over the back of the sofa. “I’m going to guess it’s because of the whole proposal thing tonight.”

Cosette nodded and pressed her hands to her belly, trying to crush the butterflies that had taken residence there. “I think I’m more nervous about him _not_ proposing now,” she admitted, grinding her heel into the floor. “What if I assumed wrong and I’ve gotten my hopes up for nothing?”

“Don’t worry,” Valjean said, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Your judgement has always been pretty good and I’m sure you’re right. Even if he doesn’t do it today, he’s bound to do it sooner or later.”

“I’m gonna laugh my balls off if he dumps you,” Grantaire said, snorting with an amused grin. He laughed harder when his father practically dived over the sofa to clamp his large hand over his mouth.

“Don’t listen to this idiot,” Valjean said. “Everything is going to go fine, but if it doesn’t, I know you’ll be alright. You’ve gotten through worse.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Cosette said, taking a calming breath, “and fuck you, Grantaire.” He just gave her a thumbs up from the sofa in response as Valjean let him go. “As annoying as you are though, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Cosette asked, checking the back of her earrings were secure. “Mom booked a table for three in case you changed your mind.”

“I’m sure,” Grantaire said, gesturing to his laptop and the study books spilling over the coffee table. “I’ve got way too much to do. Tell her I said ‘hi’ though.”

“Give Fantine my love too, won’t you?” Valjean said, getting up from the sofa and placing a hand on Cosette’s back. “Tell her she’s welcome any time. Have fun!” He walked her to do the door and kissed her head again.

Cosette laughed and clutched the chain of her bag. “Okay, okay, I’m going. You don’t need to push me out the door.”

She called out a final goodbye before disappearing down the corridor, the heel of her boots on the hardwood quietening to nothing. The two men she left behind barely moved, listening for her footsteps on the carpet or floorboards, knowing full well she could come back for something she had forgotten: her keys, a notebook, some roll-on perfume.

All was quiet and Grantaire carefully stood to peer out of the window, pulling back the curtain as far as he dared. Bossuet was leading her away, their backs turned to them as he trod the pavement and she walked through the dew-laden February grass – a habit she’d had since she was a child. Every time they went out as kids, Cosette would always run through wet grass with glee, loving the refreshing tickle on her ankles and feet.

“She’s gone,” Grantaire announced, leaping away from the window. “For a moment there I didn’t think she’d actually go.”

Valjean grinned and rolled his crisp shirt sleeves to his elbows. “I’m going to start on the cake. You start blowing up the balloons and putting up the banners.”

“On it!” Grantaire knelt in front of the sofa and pulled out packets of rose gold balloons and folded foil banners from under the seat cushion. “I got some big, pastel, paper flower pom-pom things to go up as well.”

“They sound great,” Valjean called as he went to the kitchen. “Musichetta will be along to help out soon too!”

“Good,” Grantaire answered. “I still need to add the finishing touches to Cosette’s present.”

“How’s it looking?”

“I don’t hate it,” Grantaire shrugged, opening a packet of balloons. “So, I’m sure she’ll like it.”

He rummaged through the coffee table drawer and found the balloon pump he’d hidden there earlier, beginning to blow up balloon after balloon, his legs curled tightly underneath him on the floor. It was the same position he used to sit in when they made blanket forts as kids – dining room chairs dragged to the living room and propped behind the sofa.

Grantaire fondly thought of the afternoons they spent grabbing their blankets and draping them over the furniture before filling the cavity with as many pillows as they could. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the warmth of this tiny space they'd created – the one that made him feel safe and at home.

The day they got home from school to find that their Dad had set up the fort for them was the best day of their little lives. He had decorated it with fairy lights and made them a clubhouse sign, which, almost twenty years later, was now stuck to Grantaire’s bedroom wall. When they had abandoned their bookbags on the floor and discovered the collection of sweets and snacks hidden inside, they descended into a feral state of excitement.

They didn’t take the fort down for over a week – it only came down when Grantaire tripped on his shoelace and fell backwards into the blankets. Cosette didn’t speak to him a whole _two hours_.

Tying the end of the balloon with expert fingers, he tried to remember the first time he met Cosette. It was hazy, but he could remember her mousy hair which was even longer than it was now, the scent of over-used wax crayons, and the sound of a clock ticking out of time in a beige room. A faceless woman sat on the other side of the room, scribbling notes in a worn pad of paper.

What he _could_ remember clearly, however, and what he treasured deep in his heart, was the day he got to go home with Valjean and Cosette forever. He had shuffled his feet along the floor, teddy bear in hand, feeling overwhelmed in a way he’d never known – he was drowning and burning at the same time, but suffocating, nonetheless. Valjean followed behind as they walked through the hallway, rolling the child-size suitcase of Grantaire’s meagre belongings behind him as they went.

Cosette companionably sat beside him on the sofa all day without saying a word – she stopped trying to engage in conversation after he had ignored her sixth attempt. She wore her hair in lopsided pigtails and chewed on the ends of them, occasionally glancing at her new brother’s blanched face. Eventually, she silently climbed off the sofa and disappeared, leaving Grantaire to press his face into his teddy’s scuffed fur to smell its familiar musk – tears pricking at his eyes.

She returned a minute later clutching a lollipop in her chubby hand and handed it to him with a small smile. “Lollies always make me feel better when I’m sad,” she said matter-of-factly. “Dad says when you feel sour, you need to have something sweet. It’s the last strawberry one,” she added as he eyed the sweet, not convinced the offer wasn’t part of a cruel trick. “They’re my favourite...but I’ve been saving this one for you all week.”

There was only one balloon left to inflate when Musichetta came in, kicking off her lilac suede heels and glaring at Grantaire before doing literally anything else.

“I’ve just finalised tonight’s guest list,” she said shortly, grabbing a reel of silver ribbon and a pair of scissors from the coffee table. “You wanna tell me why the Duke of fucking Normandy is on it?”

Grantaire shrugged and tied the balloon. “I wouldn’t say he’s the Duke of _fucking_ Normandy. I mean, I’m not an expert on European customs, but I don’t think you get titles and a duchy for fucking land.”

Musichetta flicked him in the head, hard and with a divine purpose. “You’re a thorn in the sole of my life.”

“Ow!” he laughed, rubbing his head. “Look, he’s there because I invited him and Cosette said it was okay. This will be another good opportunity to prove that we’re friends,” he argued. “Technically, I’m doing you a favour by pursuing this venture on my own - you get to spend less time with me! You’re _so_ _very_ welcome.”

She tied ribbon to the balloon Grantaire passed her and smiled slightly. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me if this blows up, all because you wouldn’t let those who actually know what they’re doing get involved.”

“It’ll be fine,” he answered, waving away her mild concern. “How was Joly’s appointment?”

“Standard, really,” she shrugged, tying another balloon to a length of ribbon. “The new leg should be ready by the middle of next week. I just don’t understand how he managed to break the last one. Those things are so robust.”

“Yeah…” Grantaire said slowly, remembering a drunken night he shared with Bossuet and Joly a few weeks ago. They had been playing baseball with the prosthetic on the South Lawn when it slipped from one of their hands and smacked into a tree. “It’s a real mystery.”

They tied and hung the rest of the balloons and strung up the banners whilst singing along to 80s pop, adding songs to the evening’s playlist as they went. The sweet and sour scent of lemon cake wafted through the air, making their mouths pucker and water. Musichetta teetered on her toes as she pinned a paper pom-pom to the ceiling from the too-short ladder, Grantaire keeping her steady.

“Looks brilliant in here, guys,” Valjean said, returning from the kitchen in his polka-dot apron, his smile bold and sure. “She’s going to love it.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire grinned. “How’s the cake coming along? It smells good.”

“Almost done,” Valjean answered, satisfied with his work. “Just waiting for it to cool so I can frost it.” He nudged Grantaire away from the ladder. “Go and finish your present. I’ll help out with the last of the decorations.”

“Thanks,” he said again, gathering his law books and laptop in his arms, and heading back to his room. Once there, he chucked his stuff on the unmade bed and promised himself he’d tidy up later.

The canvas was hidden behind his wardrobe – he slipped it out carefully and propped it up on his easel ready to add the final grains of sand and the last highlights. The brush had barely embraced the picture when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

* * *

**The Puke of Normandy**

Is there a dress code for tonight?

_Not really. Just make sure you don’t turn up looking like your own fucking house…I still have nightmares about your hideous wedding outfit._

The more you say that the more tempting it is to wear it – cake stains and all.

_You’re literally the worst person I’ve ever talked to, and I’ve had to speak to Elon Musk on more than one occasion._

Ouch. You wound me, sir.

* * *

The music made the floorboards bounce and the windows quake in their panes. They had replaced the lightbulbs with disco bulbs that made the balloons and foil decorations glint in amazing, tacky colours as they flashed out of time to the music. The lights followed the lawlessness of the chaos beneath them - glittered bodies writhed together as the next song began, and a group in the corner began slamming down shots as they formed a conga line.

“Happy Birthday!” Senator Javert shouted at her over the bass. “I just came to drop off your gift!”

Cosette grinned at him, her pink sequined jumpsuit rustling like bells every time she moved. “Thank you! At least take some cake home with you if you’re not staying,” she implored, leading him to the closed-off kitchen. “Dad made it this morning,” she said, taking the impressive three-tier cake from the fridge and cutting a piece in the cool quiet, the music muffled through the walls.

“Your dad’s full of surprises, isn’t he?” Javert said, scratching at his chin.

“Wouldn’t have him any other way though,” Cosette told him, carefully placing the neat slice into a cake box.

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Javert said kindly. “Grantaire!” He cried as Grantaire walked in to get some more ice. “How are you doing, son?”

“Great, sir,” Grantaire said, swaying a little as he went to shake his hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m just on my way out,” he said, picking up the cake box. “Are you still on track to be where Éponine is at her age?”

Grantaire nodded and saluted, behind him, Cosette snickered. “I certainly hope so.”

“Good,” Javert said, using one of his broad hands to pat Grantaire’s shoulder. “I can’t wait to see your name at Dirksen in a few years.”

“Me neither,” he slurred. “Éponine’s been a really good role model and influence, sir.”

Javert grinned. “She sure has. Enjoy the rest of the night, you two. Happy Birthday again, Cosette.” He whistled a tune as he let himself out.

“ _Yes, sir._ _Great, sir_ ,” said Cosette in a low drawl, mocking a salute and guffawing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“He’s kind of terrifying!” Grantaire argued, resuming his hunt for ice. “I have made many questionable life choices and he used to be a cop!”

“Yeah, _used to be_ ,” she said impatiently, putting the cake back in the fridge, minding not to squash any of the piped raspberry buttercream flowers. “It’s twenty years too late to be scared.”

Grantaire stuck out his tongue at her and removed the bag of ice from the freezer. “Yeah, well, I’ve been conditioned to be careful around cops and ex-cops, no matter how long they've been out of service.”

“Of course, sorry, I didn’t think,” Cosette said, going back to the party. “So, where’s your boyfriend?” She said over the din.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Grantaire said, pulling a face and refilling the ice buckets and chillers. “And he’s not here yet. He might have decided not to come at the last minute.” He discarded the empty bag and picked at the label of a beer bottle before opening it. “Where’s _your_ boyfriend, anyway?”

She giggled and pointed to the other side of the room where he was stood between Éponine, who looked intimidating in her bodycon dress and fishnets, and one of Cosette’s editor friends who towered a foot above him. “He looks scared…I should rescue him.”

“Nah, let him flounder,” Grantaire said, taking a swig from the bottle. “He almost deserves it.”

“Don’t be harsh,” Cosette said, slapping his hand. “The night isn’t over yet, and it still might happen.” She grinned and walked over to him, draping an arm over his nervous shoulder and kissing his cheek as she fell easily into their conversation.

Grantaire watched her for a few moments, smiling, before realising how creepy that was. He turned to schmooze with some skinny, floppy-haired guy from a band that he’d never heard of. The guy bored him to tears and he felt his soul leaving his body with every passing second.

“Why the long face, Potter?” said a familiar voice. Enjolras sidled up beside him, grinning an infuriatingly perfect grin.

“Malfoy,” Grantaire said, taking another drink to hide his own smile. “I didn’t think you were going to come.”

“I was held up with something,” he said apologetically. “And I can’t stay all night – I’ve got a meeting in Belgium in the morning.”

“Ah, but of course,” Grantaire laughed, the boyband member drifted away, mumbling something Grantaire didn't care about. “We certainly wouldn’t want to keep Belgium waiting, would we? You shouldn’t have come if you’re so busy.”

He shrugged, the little gift bag he brought with him swinging from his wrist. “I wanted to come.”

“Why?”

Enjolras pursed his lips and looked around the room, his eyes finally adjusting to the multicoloured lights. “Because…you asked me to. Because I like Cosette. Because you thought it was a good idea.”

“Wow…” Grantaire said, finishing his drink. “I was two out of three answers…I’m almost flattered.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Enjolras told him, spotting Cosette across the room. He waved, causing her to come bounding over. She picked up two plastic cups of vodka and coke on her way. “Happy Birthday,” he said to her, taking the drink she offered. “Thank you. Grantaire forgot to ask if I wanted a drink.”

“Of course he did,” Cosette said, rolling her eyes. “Thank you for coming, Monseigneur.”

Enjolras cringed at the formality as he took a sip from his cup. “Please don’t call me that unless we’re in an official capacity. Enjolras is much preferred. Here,” he said, passing her the gift bag. “I hope you’ve had a good day so far.”

“It’s been wonderful,” she said, opening the bag. “Oh my god, the Amour Vert glasses! I’ve been after these for _ages_.” She gasped and clapped her hands together. “That means you read my blog!” Cosette’s eyes welled up for the fourth time that day as she revealed a pair of pink, dramatically angular sunglasses.

“Grantaire mentioned it and I thought I'd have a read through,” he admitted, smiling from the corner of his mouth. “I really enjoyed your piece on the emergence of sustainable fashion companies and their impact on the modern fashion industry. I forwarded it on to some of my friends and my cousin, Héloïse. She thinks the two of you might be able to work together on a project someday.”

Cosette tried on the glasses but burst out laughing when they wouldn’t fit over her prescription ones. She put them on her head instead. “Oh, that’s great! Please do tell her to get in touch whenever…thank you, Enjolras. This is by far my second favourite present!”

In her metallic high heels, she was just tall enough to kiss Enjolras’ cheeks. Grantaire found himself clenching his teeth at the sight and picked up whichever drink was closest to him.

“Second favourite?” Enjolras said, feigning upset. “Your favourite better be incredible.”

“It is – you should come see it!” Cosette cried, her eyes lighting up as she grabbed hold of Enjolras’ arm and began pulling him away from the party. “Come on!”

“Cosette, no!” Grantaire said, chasing after them. “Enjolras doesn’t need to see it.”

He didn’t anticipate it being so difficult to catch up to her – she was surprisingly athletic when drunk. He was less so.

“Don’t be shy!” she called back, Enjolras looking bemused between them both. She led them down the corridor, past Bossuet who was standing guard, and a tired-looking Bahorel, to stop in front of her bedroom door. “You’re gonna love it,” she said with an excited laugh.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Grantaire said to Enjolras when he had finally caught up, wide-eyed and picking at his lip. “Cosette, you really don’t have to show him…”

She held her head high and pushed on the door handle. “It’s my present and I’ll show who I like.”

Grantaire took a step back as Cosette yanked Enjolras into the dark of her bedroom. She switched on the light to reveal a cheerful and tidy space, accents of baby pink on the walls and a matching faux fur rug on the floor. Above the neat desk, which was stacked with fashion magazines, was a pinboard with every inch of space taken up by photographs – mostly pictures of friends, family, and her graduation.

She gestured to her bed where a large canvas was propped up against the padded headboard. “He’s been working on this for _months_ …it’s based on my favourite photo and I fully wept when he gave it to me.”

The canvas showed four people sitting on a wall at the beach. A little girl in the middle, Cosette, in pigtails and a yellow sundress, beaming at the ice cream she was holding. Beside her was Valjean, clean-shaven and beaming, his hair mussed from the wind but untouched by age. A young woman was sat on Cosette’s other side. She was laughing and trying to stop Cosette’s hair from flying into her ice cream, ignoring her own golden tresses as it blew messily behind her. Finally, there was a little boy with dark curly hair and deep eyes sitting to Valjean’s right, a bloodied graze on his knee, but still smiling wide to reveal the gap in his front teeth. Valjean had his arm around his shoulders and the boy was holding his own ice cream, most of it dripping down his hand.

Behind them, the sky was reflected in the soft diamond sea, the sun glinting off the water and the heads of the four frontal figures.

“It’s so detailed. Who gave it to you?” Enjolras asked, stepping closer to the picture.

“Grantaire, of course,” she said, quickly running out to drag her brother into the room. He smiled politely but looked, and felt like he’d rather die than be present for this conversation.

Enjolras nodded, admiring the small grains of sand painted into the children’s hair. “He’s been working for months to have this made for you?”

“He painted it himself actually,” Cosette said proudly, pushing Grantaire forward. “Isn’t it beautiful? He’s so talented but he’s far too modest about it.”

The Duke stood up straight and smiled at Grantaire, his eyes somewhat soft and sleepy. “Modest isn't a word I’ve ever associated with your brother,” he admitted. “But yes…he’s very talented. It’s truly wonderful and certainly worthy of any palace.”

Ignoring the intense embarrassment, Grantaire took a moment to look at Enjolras properly now they were free from the distorting disco lights and the anonymous dark. Enjolras had a hand tucked into the pocket of his skinny jeans and was wearing a plain shirt with a fitted red blazer over the top. Grantaire mentally grumbled at how much he looked like a fucking Instagram model. When Grantaire looked up to meet his eyes again, Enjolras seemed to be staring back at him with the same intensity.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his throat a little hoarse. Cosette’s grip on his arm tightened.

“Who’s the lady with you?” Enjolras asked, clearing his throat as he turned back to the canvas.

“My mom,” Cosette said brightly. “And before you ask, yes, she’s still in my life and she’s brilliant. And no, she’s not Grantaire’s mom…but she loves him too.”

“God, if you’re there,” Grantaire said, looking at the ceiling, “please fucking kill me. _Please._ ”

Footsteps along the corridor were the answer to Grantaire’s prayers. An out-of-breath Marius poked his head around the door with a nervous smile.

“There you are,” he said, locking eyes with Cosette. “Can I…Can I talk to you in private for a minute?”

“Of course,” Cosette said, taking the sunglasses off her head and resting them on her desk. She flashed Grantaire an enthusiastic grin before shoving him and Enjolras out of the room, allowing Marius to slip in as he apologised to the outcasts.

Grantaire grinned at the plain door as it slammed shut behind them.

“What was that about?” Enjolras asked, raising his eyebrows. He took a sip from his cup as he realised it was still nestled in his hand.

“I think,” Grantaire said slowly, walking them back to the party, “you’re about to be present for a world exclusive.”

“That literally doesn’t answer my question at all,” Enjolras said, narrowing his eyes, “but sure, I’ll pretend I know what’s happening.”

Grantaire waved his hand and shrugged. “You don’t need to know just yet,” he decided. “I’m glad you didn’t wear that wedding suit in the end,” he said, expertly changing the topic. “You look passable as a person dressed like that.”

Enjolras grinned as Grantaire stopped by the drinks table. “Oh, I see what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Grantaire said. “All I’m doing is making conversation.”

“You’re trying to make fun of me, so I won’t bring up the painting,” he explained. “I have so many questions…”

Grantaire could feel his face flushing. To hide it, he busied himself by pointlessly reorganising the drinks. “I will answer three questions.”

“Just like every other troll under a bridge,” Enjolras said astutely, grinning as Grantaire shot a dirty look at him. “Okay, first question: you used to be so cute. What happened?”

“I met you and aged fifty years,” Grantaire fired back, turning the beer bottles so all the labels faced outward.

Enjolras laughed, his eyes twinkling like stars in the dark. “Second question: have you always been so sentimental?”

“I’m not,” he answered, shrugging his left shoulder, “but Cosette is. I painted it because I knew she’d love the sentimentality. Okay, you’ve got one question left - use it wisely.”

“You know what? I don’t want to use it,” Enjolras decided. “Instead, I want to tell you you’re extremely gifted. I didn’t realise you were an artist yourself – I thought you were just interested in looking at art and learning about its history. Look…I meant what I said back there. It really would look wonderful in any palace.”

Grantaire tapped his knuckles on the tabletop and pursed his lips together. “Thanks…I appreciate it.”

“This looks real cosy,” Éponine said, appearing out of thin air. “Hi,” she added, extending her hand to Enjolras. “I’m Éponine. Please don’t introduce yourself – I’ve heard _plenty_ about you.” She looked between Grantaire and Enjolras with a sly grin.

Grantaire kept his head down, becoming increasingly sweaty, and dry around the mouth.

“It’s nice to put a face to the name,” Enjolras told her. “Grantaire has told me lots about you too…he speaks very highly of you.”

“You’re damn right, he does,” she said haughtily, nudging Grantaire with a mischievous look.

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t…I’m fully aware of your work, and I have to say, it’s an impressive collection,” Enjolras said, but he trailed off as Grantaire leapt away without a word, moving as if he’d been burned. He was following Cosette who had suddenly come thundering through the corridor and into the room, looking around the swarm of people like a lost child at a theme park.

Over the music of Bon Jovi, their words were completely inaudible. It was just a barrage of fast-moving lips followed by fast-moving limbs as Grantaire pulled Cosette into a hug. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, tucking her head into the crook of his neck despite having to stoop to reach.

Grantaire murmured something in her ear, and she nodded before pulling pack to wipe her mascara from her cheeks with the back of her manicured hands.

Marius, Enjolras noted, had yet to return to the party.


	6. The South Lawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter may be a little different and stilted because I decided I wanted to write something that was more of a single prolonged conversation in one place with little scenery and minimal "props", which if I'm honest, has left this very exposition heavy. I'm not sure about the style yet but I'd definitely like to know if you think it worked or not so I have something to think about for the future! Thank you :)

Finally, he had some peace and quiet. Between talking to Cosette, finding excuses to avoid Enjolras even though he invited him (and no, he couldn’t explain to himself why he was doing that), keeping the drinks well-stocked, and greeting other guests, he didn’t have much of an opportunity to seize a moment to recharge.

As soon as he had brought out and poured more champagne, and noticed that Enjolras was deep in conversation with Éponine, a Young Adult novelist, and one of Cosette’s friends from school, he made his silent escape to the South Lawn.

Grantaire leaned against the bark of a northern red oak tree, looking up at the House and the vibrant lights dancing in the windows. There was no music to be heard from this distance, just a pleasant ringing in his ears and a dizzy feeling in his head that sounded like static. He lit a cigarette and crossed his legs, not caring if the damp ground gave him a wet ass and soggy thighs. All he cared about was this cigarette, his sister, and doing tequila shots with Éponine once he’d had his period of calm.

He tilted his head to the sky as he exhaled, running his thumb over the browning filter of his cigarette. There were few stars tonight and the clouds in the distance looked heavy and dark – tomorrow would have the perfect morning for a hangover, he was sure of it.

If he closed his eyes, he could already hear the rain hitting the windows and see the gentle darkness of the daylight that would anchor him to his bed. Maybe he’d throw open the window so he could feel the cool breeze on his skin as he hunkered down for the day, so he could smell the earthy scent of water as it splashed on his windowpane and on to the overgrown grass below.

Perhaps he’d spend the morning reading that book Cosette kept pestering him to read. Perhaps he’d make some flashcards for his International Human Rights class. Perhaps he’d come up with campaign ideas for his dad. But perhaps, most likely, he’d spend the day groaning into his pillow and wishing he were dead, vowing never to drink again, only emerging from his cocoon to piss and smoke.

“What are you doing out here on your own?” Enjolras asked, walking over the grass towards him at an alarming pace - a side effect of his gangly limbs. “You invite me then run away when I start talking to your friends?” He collapsed beside Grantaire under the tree, smiling despite his attempt to act irritated.

“I needed some peace and quiet…but I see you’re hellbent on ruining that for me,” Grantaire said, knocking ash to the ground.

“You’ll get over it,” Enjolras answered. “Is Cosette okay? She looked pretty upset when she came back.”

Grantaire grinned, showing a line of lightly stained upper teeth. “Trust me, she’s fine. She’s been crying on and off all day, but I think she’s all cried out now."

“How come?”

“Don’t say anything to anyone because she needs to tell her mom before it goes public,” Grantaire said, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Marius just proposed. She said yes, of course, but I think it was the last emotional straw of the day, bless her. She's an emotional person at the best of times so this was a big deal.”

Enjolras beamed for the two people he barely knew. “That’s great news! I’ll be sure to send them an engagement gift when it becomes public knowledge.” He reached over and plucked the cigarette from Grantaire’s fingers, inhaling on it himself with a satisfied smile.

“Hey!” Grantaire exclaimed, frowning first and then bursting into confused laughter. “You cheeky fuck. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t…not officially, anyway,” Enjolras said with a half shrug, handing the cigarette back.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned his head against the tree bark, keeping a tight hold on what remained of the cigarette. “Ugghhhhh,” he said, giving a groan so prolonged that his Adam’s apple vibrated wildly in his throat.

“What?”

“’ _I don’t smoke, not officially_ ,’” he repeated, badly mimicking Enjolras’ accent. “That’s not a thing! You either you do, or you don’t.”

Enjolras laughed and looked up at the tree, watching the wind rustle the leaves. “I guess I do then. Very, very rarely though…if my dad knew about it, he’d just…” He made the sound of an explosion through his teeth and imitated the dramatic movement with his hands.

“No offence,” Grantaire said, feeling uncomfortably sober now, “but your dad sounds like a freak. Does he get angry at everything you do or say?”

“No…just the stuff that he thinks will damage the carefully curated reputation of the family,” he trailed off and laughed hollowly. “So, yeah, actually… _everything_ I do or say makes him mad.”

“Yep,” Grantaire said, stubbing his cigarette out on the base of the tree, “definitely a freak. You should do what you like anyway. Your ancestors already ruined the reputation of your family so _fuck it_ , smoke and chuck your money away. Maybe I'd like you more if you actually had some fun instead of walking around like you’ve been handed a death sentence.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Isn’t it though?” Grantaire asked, giving Enjolras a cigarette of his own as a vague peace offering, and then lighting one himself. “You’re young, rich, and powerful – you’re one of the few people in this world who can have fun, make stupid mistakes, be reckless, and let their fucking Disney Princess hair down and it wouldn’t matter. There are, like, no consequences for you.”

Enjolras let out a sharp bark and shook his head. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say there are _no_ consequences...Plus, I’m not powerful – my dad is. There’s a difference.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and sighed into the night.

“You’re powerful too,” Grantaire argued. “You know as much about international law and affairs as I do, you’re in an elevated position within society, you have so much money you can’t even get your dad to take it back…” he shrugged and watched Enjolras absently flick ash into the mud. “You could leave this whole world quaking in your wake if you used the power you have instead of moping around your gilded cage.”

“I do not _mope_ ,” Enjolras said, raising his chin. “If anything, I _brood_.”

“Ugh, you’re such a pretentious asshole,” Grantaire muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

Enjolras chuckled and held his hands up in surrender. “What I mean to say is...I do use my power, as much as I’m able, but I think we have different ideas of what that means. Anyway, enough about _my_ so-called power, what about yours? Have you always wanted to be a senator?”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose in thought. “Yes and no. I never thought much about what I wanted to be as a kid, not to start with.”

“What changed?”

“Dad. I grew up watching him advance in his political career and I just remember being in absolute awe of him and the things he was doing…I still am. It felt right to follow in his footsteps.” He picked up a leaf that fell on his shoulder and twisted it between his fingers. “In short, I didn’t know what I wanted to be until I learned about the senate and then suddenly it was all I wanted to be a part of.” Grantaire dropped the leaf and scratched at the back of his neck, smiling at the shadows of his friends as they passed the windows of the White House. “What about you? What would you want to be if you hadn’t been born royal?”

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras said honestly, fiddling with his burnt-out cigarette end. “I’ve never given myself an opportunity to think about it since it wouldn’t matter.”

Grantaire nodded. “Saving yourself the heartbreak of a failed dream?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Enjolras said, taking a long breath in and smiling despite himself.

“I’ll drink to that,” Grantaire sighed, pretending to raise a glass. “So, was studying International Affairs and Development your choice or the King’s?”

“Both of ours, actually,” Enjolras said, smiling. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing we’ve ever agreed on. I liked the idea because it got me out of Versailles for a while and it’s a subject I genuinely have a passion for, and Dad liked it because it made me look good. It made me look like I was taking my role as Duke seriously. And being second in line for the throne,” he looked like he was going to be sick at that fact, “I should look like I’m training to be King or whatever just in case something happened to my brother. International Affairs was a good way to do that without actually having to take lessons in how to be King.”

Grantaire extended his legs in front of him and felt pins and needles stab at his toes. “I bet you can’t wait for Louis and Manon to have kids.”

“It will take some of the pressure off, that’s for sure,” Enjolras nodded, tearing grass from the ground.

“I can’t see you being king anyway,” Grantaire said interlacing his fingers in his lap, letting the cool wind wick away the moisture forming on his palms. “It doesn’t suit you. You’re too…”

“Too much of an asshole? Too rude to others? Too judgemental?” Enjolras said, trying to guess how Grantaire would finish the sentence, narrowing his eyes further with each suggestion.

“ _Thoughtful_ ,” Grantaire said after an extensive pause. “I think you’re a bit like me in that respect - we both have a habit of trying to think of others before ourselves, sometimes to our disadvantage. If you were king, that kind of behaviour would either turn you too kind and eventually passive or fully fucking mad and tyrannical under the pressure.”

Enjolras seemed to blanch and he tightened his fist around the cigarette end. “I’d rather follow Maman into the grave before I let myself get any closer to the throne.”

The air dropped a few degrees and shiver travelled down Grantaire’s spine. “Well…I’m gonna go ahead and guess you’ve never said _that_ to the King.”

“Never,” Enjolras confirmed, stretching his long limbs and arching his back against the tree. “Not only is it treasonous, but we don’t ever talk about Maman at home. Dad gets riled up if we so much as imply her existence in passing. It would be a multi-pronged attack of a comment.”

Grantaire frowned and fought the urge to put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Fuck, that’s so shit. I’m sorry.” He chewed on his lip. “ _We_ can talk about her…if you want? I don’t mind asking the questions if it makes it easier or if you don’t know where to start.”

“That depends on what you want to ask.” He finally dropped the cigarette end in the grass and ground it into the mud with his thumb, frowning so the crease between his brows was a deep chip in the fine porcelain of his skin.

“What was she like? She wasn’t born into nobility, was she? I remember reading that on your file.”

Enjolras shook his head. “She was just like anybody else, to begin with. My grandfather knighted her father for services to the military when he was King and that’s how my parents met…she was just an ordinary woman from Toulouse who fell in love with an extraordinary man in a stupid hat. She never lost her love for Toulouse and her life from before marriage though,” he added. “She always tried to keep Louis-Joseph and I grounded – reminding us we’d always be half civilian and we should hold on to that.”

Grantaire couldn’t help smiling. “That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“It explains you,” Grantaire shrugged. “Look at you – born between two worlds. You hate one world and the other hates you. No wonder you constantly look like you’ve got a royal stick up your backside.”

“No, I don’t,” Enjolras snapped, then groaned at himself. “Sorry. I’ll have you know that a royal stick is called a _sceptre_ and my mother’s world does not _hate_ me.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Of course not,” he said, smirking, “that’s why you have protestors following you on official outings, the public opinion of the royals is falling steeply year on year, and you’re being called a puppet of the King by your public,” he added, remembering an article he'd read only the day before.

“I still hate you sometimes, you know that?” Enjolras huffed, folding his arms over his torso.

“Yeah, I feel the same about you too,” he said proudly. “Come on, tell me what your Mom was like.”

Enjolras shifted in the grass, his bum losing feeling in the cold. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip and pressed the pad of it gently against his teeth. “She was…kind. She was so patient, too. I don’t think I ever felt unsafe around her…she just oozed comfort.” He stopped to laugh. “Do you remember what was written on my fact file as my favourite food?”

“Scallops poached in white wine,” Grantaire answered, recoiling at how many facts he could recite from the file and how quickly he could do it.

“That’s not even a little bit true,” Enjolras admitted. “My favourite food is actually her croque monsieur. I’ve never had another like it.”

He had a wistful look in his eyes as he smiled up at the sky and Grantaire watched him from the corners of his own, drinking in the fragility of him. Who knew a vodka, a cigarette, and a quiet talk under the clouds would turn him into a real person instead of a caricature?

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a croque monsieur,” Grantaire admitted, much to Enjolras’ horror. “But I’ll try one soon. Clearly, you’re going to have an aneurysm if I don’t,” he teased, noticing the bulging vein on Enjolras’ temple. “Do you have a favourite memory of her?”

Enjolras' shoulders relaxed against the cool, damp wood of the tree. “We went to Toulouse once so I could meet my grandparents, and whilst I don’t really remember them, I do remember her taking me to the Jardin des Plantes. There are these sculptures there, copies not originals, of course, but there's one of Apollo, Diana, Atalanta, Hippomenes, and loads of others. Maman and I went around every statue and she told me each character’s story, and she did it all with a great amount of passion and patience as I asked her a multitude of questions.”

“That’s adorable. How old were you?”

“Seven, I think, maybe six,” Enjolras said. “She didn’t censor or skip the terrible things the characters did in their stories either. She thought they made important teaching tools and I was old enough to understand.”

"She sounds like she was a great mom." Grantaire tapped his finger on his cigarette packet, knowing the next question was a gamble. “Do you mind if I ask how she died?”

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked to the ground again, his face clouding. After a second, he rubbed at his eyes and yawned, though Grantaire suspected it was fake. “Sorry,” the Duke said, pulling on a smile again, flipping between emotions as you would the pages of a book. “You’ve got to be a Level Four friend for that story at least, but preferably Level Five.”

“Oh?” Grantaire said, raising his eyebrows and offering another cigarette. “That implies we’re already friends. When did that happen?”

After lighting his cigarette and pretending to think about the question, Enjolras said, “somewhere between you trying to beat the shit out of me in a cupboard and you inviting me here tonight.”

“I’m not so sure,” Grantaire said sceptically. “Being your friend doesn’t sound like something I'd do...”

“Tough,” Enjolras said triumphantly. “That’s exactly what’s happened. I would say we’re Level Two friends, but only just.”

“Good to know.”

They sit in comfortable silence, watching a drunk couple as they stumble out of the building and into the garden, kissing and laughing. When the couple spotted them, they whispered, laughed harder, and ran off in the opposite direction.

“So…I’ve opened up a bit about my parents…” Enjolras said tentatively. “Can I expect the favour to be returned? Your real family, your birth family, either is fine by me.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You know my Dad – everyone does. There’s not much more to say.”

Taking the hint that his birth parents were an off-limit subject, Enjolras shrugged looked for something else to say. “Valjean seems like a good dad to you. I’m glad you have that.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said earnestly. “He’s definitely one of the better men out there.”

“How old were you when you met him?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes again. “Why don’t you just directly ask me what you want to instead of skirting around the situation? It’ll be quicker for us both.”

Enjolras pressed his lips together in a half-embarrassed, half-amused smile. “Okay, how and when did Valjean come to adopt you?”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Grantaire teased. For the story, Grantaire decided to lie down in the cold grass so only his head was propped up by the tree.

He began to explain how much he hated his foster home in San Antonio and how he planned to run away.

Little Grantaire picked up his worn-out Pokémon rucksack, stuffed it with a change of clothes, the few coins from his money box, and his only teddy bear - a raggedy thing with sparse, grungy fur. After a long two-hour wait, he grasped his opportunity whilst everyone was preparing for an afternoon of board games.

Quietly, he took his escape bag and locked himself in the bathroom on the ground floor, climbing on to the scummy, limescale-laced sink before shimmying his small frame out the draughty window.

The unique feeling of freedom outweighed any fear he might have felt as he ran down the street. He ran until his legs felt like jelly and he could taste iron in his mouth, and when he couldn’t run any more, he slumped down beside a lamppost, wishing he had remembered to bring a bottle of water as an antidote the oppressive Texan heat.

After searching his bag for the little money he’d saved so he could go to the nearest shop, he found they were gone – likely to have fallen through the hole at the bottom of the bag. The sun was hot on his back and his throat felt like sandpaper. Everyone around him was so… _tall_. He suddenly felt like an ant in a forest – tiny, insignificant, and moments away from danger at any instant.

The tears came quickly, but they only served to dehydrate him more. Even as he furiously licked at the product of his own hot cries that collected in the corners of his mouth, it didn’t do anything to quench the thirst.

“Hey,” Valjean said softly, appearing from nowhere and kneeling on the pavement beside him. “Are you lost?”

Grantaire shook his head, unable to stop himself from weeping to speak.

“Okay, well, my name’s Jean. Would you like to tell me your name?” Grantaire shook his head again and Valjean smiled kindly. “That’s okay – you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m still going to keep asking you questions though because I don’t think you should be alone. Why are you crying?”

“Thirsty,” he bleated out, hiccupping now too.

“Shall we go and get something to drink then? I think I could do with some juice myself actually.” Valjean noisily smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to get Grantaire to smile.

Hesitantly, but thinking it probably wouldn’t do any harm (the Foster Home hadn’t talked to him about Stranger Danger), Grantaire got up and followed Valjean into a cool, air-conditioned café where he drank the sweetest orange juice he’d ever had.

“Are you out here all on your own?” Valjean asked, trying not to look too concerned. “Or are you waiting here for someone?”

“My own, sir.”

“How come?”

“Ran away.”

Valjean nodded and sipped on his own orange juice. “Do you think we should take you home? Your Mommy and Daddy will be worried about you…I know I would be if my daughter ever ran away.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Don’t live with them anymore. Mamá, papá y la policía dijeron que tengo que vivir en otro lugar,” he added, finding that he didn’t know most of the words he wanted to say in English yet.

“Oh…where do you live now? I need to make sure you have enough water for the journey home!” Valjean smiled.

“Big house,” Grantaire said. “Trinity Home.”

“I see,” Valjean said, giving him a small, sad smile. It turned out that Valjean had read about the home, and how the authorities told the owners it needed urgent improvements or would soon face closure. “You don’t like it there?”

“No, sir.”

Grantaire looked up with older eyes and emerging stubble as the night grew long. “Anyway, Dad managed to talk me into letting him walk me back and even asked for a tour of the home. After that, he always made the effort to come back week after week to visit, regardless of where he was in the country,” he grinned at the memory. “I was only four at the time. By the time I was six, I was moving in with him and Cosette and the adoption was finalised about six months later.”

“Wow,” Enjolras breathed. “You were so _young_.”

“I’m glad though,” Grantaire admitted. “I think me being that young made things better. Made it easier for me to settle in.”

Enjolras nodded. He was about to say something when Bahorel came running over – even in the dark, the bags under his eyes were noticeable. Despite the exhaustion from multiple transatlantic journeys and long days and nights of work, his beard and moustache were perfectly preserved and religiously styled.

“It’s time to go, Enjolras,” he said apologetically. “Nice to see you again, Grantaire.”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Enjolras promised Bahorel. “Let me say goodbye to Grantaire. And Cosette, too, of course.”

After Bahorel had left for the car, Enjolras stood, brushing his jeans of mud. “Well, thank you for the invite. It’s been lovely.”

“I can’t believe you,” Grantaire said, getting up too, wobbling on his numb legs. “You’ve only been here for, like, an hour and a half.”

“I have an appointment in Belgium,” Enjolras reminded him. “I told you I couldn’t stay long.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, frowning. “But…you took a 12-hour flight to spend an _hour_ here, and now you’re going to take another 12-hour flight to Belgium when you could’ve just not come at all and saved yourself a lot of bother? That’s ridiculous!”

“You asked me to come, so I came. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Enjolras smiled, beginning to walk away.

Grantaire followed close behind. “Literally no friend has ever done that,” he said. “Not to mention that it’s absolutely horrific for the environment.”

“I thought about that,” Enjolras said with a shrug. “Which is why we decided to take the electric plane.”

“ _Of course_ you’ve got a fucking electric plane,” Grantaire huffed. “But it’s still insane that you’re travelling _24 hours_ to spend _one hour_ at a birthday party where you spent most of it hanging out with me instead of the birthday girl.”

Enjolras stopped in his tracks, making Grantaire stumble into him. “I could invite you to a party we’re having in a fortnight if it would make you feel better?”

“What?” Grantaire said, shoving his cigarette packet in his back pocket. “You’re having another party at Versailles? And you’re asking _me_ if I want to come after what happened last time?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, then hissed through his teeth, “and no. I’m asking if you want to come, yes, but…it’s less of a party and more of a… _ball_ ,” he said, visibly swallowing his embarrassment and repulsion. “And, I'm going to warn you now, there’s a _very_ specific dress code...”


	7. After the Party

Rain hammered against the windows like drums dictating a steady beat to a band. As it continued to thud against the glass, the inhabitants of the White House moved to its tempo, slow and lazy.

Everyone that is, except Valjean, who was moving around the living room with a light step, trash bag in hand and whistling a happy tune to himself. Solo cups, cans, bottles, and popped balloons were chucked into the bag, followed by stale chips, congealed dips, and discarded wrapping paper.

The children were tucked up in bed – Cosette lovingly wrapped around Marius’ gangly limbs, and Grantaire curled up on his side with the duvet so far over his head, only a few tufts of his thick hair could be seen beneath the marshmallow covers. It was lovely to see them looking so peaceful, but it was nicer knowing that there would be no arguments in their meeting today, which Valjean had kindly moved to after lunch when he realised no-one would be up and ready for nine.

He decided to leave up the banners and paper pom-poms, but swept up the metallic pink and gold confetti from the floor, making a mental note to vacuum properly when the kids were awake and suitably alive to withstand the high-pitched, whistling tone of the vacuum cleaner.

As Valjean made coffee an hour later, making sure to add cardamom for Grantaire and heavy cream for Cosette, leaving it black for himself and Marius, the slap and drag of bare feet on the polished floor, followed by the screech of chair legs, alerted him to Grantaire’s presence.

“Good morning, handsome,” Valjean said without a hint of irony. “How was your night?”

“Never drinking tequila again,” Grantaire groaned, his face greyer than the weather. He made childish, grabby motions towards the coffee mug he knew was his thanks to the chip in the rim.

Valjean rolled his eyes affectionately and handed him the cup. “I’ve raised an animal who can speak two languages fluently but still can’t use his big boy words.”

“Mmm,” Grantaire said, sipping on the coffee and letting out a satisfied sound. “Thank you. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Valjean answered, leaning against the fridge.

Grantaire let a lazy smile bloom over his face. “No, sorry, I was talking to the coffee.”

“Oh yeah?” his father smirked, picking up Cosette and Marius’ mugs. “If you’re not too hungover to make jokes then you’re not too hungover to start work.”

The ashen colour of Grantaire’s face became deeper and he pretended to fall asleep on the table, pushing his forehead firmly against the lacquered wood. “Can’t hear you. Busy sleeping.”

“That’s what I thought,” Valjean said, taking the mugs down the corridor. He left them outside Cosette’s door and knocked before returning to the kitchen. “I expect Fantine will be coming over at some point this morning,” he told Grantaire, getting out a cleaning cloth and some polish from under the sink. “Make sure you’re dressed, please.”

“When did Cosette tell you?” Grantaire asked, lifting his head from the table. The smell of furniture polish burned his nose as Valjean started wiping the kitchen cabinets.

“She came running down shortly after it happened, I think,” Valjean said. “She said she’d already told you at any rate. I’ve never seen her look so happy.”

Grantaire yawned and took a large gulp of coffee to mask the dead animal taste lurking in his mouth. “Are you okay about it?”

“You know, I actually am,” he said, turning to grin at Grantaire. “I know she really loves him, and this is what she wants. Plus, Marius _will_ look after her and treat her right…he knows I’ll drop him in the Australian outback or something if he doesn’t.”

"Did you tell him that last night by any chance?"

"I might have done," Valjean said as both he and Grantaire shared a sly grin over their coffees.

* * *

Fantine came rushing in with a grin larger than Cosette’s – which, this morning, wasn’t too difficult because she was still feeling the ill-effects of too much sparkling wine and gin. Still, she looked surprisingly put-together in her jeans, blouse, and meticulously picked jewellery.

“It’s the necklace,” Cosette said, pointing to the bejewelled, flamboyant piece around her neck as Grantaire complained she looked too good for how much she drank. “Every time someone puts on a statement necklace, their outfit looks more thought out and less like they’re dead inside.”

Dropping a kiss on her forehead, Fantine grabbed her daughter’s face and ran her thumbs over her cheeks. “I can’t believe my little girl is getting married! Let me see the ring!” Her face dropped when she picked up Cosette’s hand to find it free of jewels.

“I picked up the wrong size,” Marius said from beside Cosette. “It was too small so I’m taking it to get resized later today.” He fished around in his jacket pocket for the velvet ring box and passed it to Fantine, who handled it like it was the most precious thing she’d ever touched.

“It’s gorgeous, Marius,” she said quietly. The simple solitaire diamond was set in a delicate twisted silver band and Fantine kept moving the ring under the light to watch the colours dancing in the multifaceted stone. Even on a rainy day like today the diamond dazzled in what little sun could touch it. “I can’t believe it,” she said again, handing the ring and its box back to Marius. “Not only do I have the most gorgeous daughter, but now I’ve got _two_ honorary sons!”

“I’m glad to be part of the family,” Marius said, grinning sheepishly. His face flushed red. “Oh, and don’t worry, I’ve already been given the terrifying ‘if you ever hurt her’ chat,” he added, looking pointedly at Valjean.

“And I stand by it, son,” Valjean said.

Fantine chuckled and leaned over to kiss Marius’ forehead, then did the same to Grantaire so he didn’t feel left out. He pulled a face and flapped her away, smiling.

“We should celebrate,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Family dinner?”

“Soon,” Cosette promised. “Want some cake? Dad made it.”

“I won’t say no,” Fantine answered, smiling over at Valjean.

“And then you have to come and see the present Grantaire made for me,” Cosette beamed, laughing when Grantaire groaned and shoved his face into a chintzy cushion.

“I hate you _so much_ and I can’t wait for you to move out.”

* * *

**The Puke of Normandy**

So, have you decided if you’re going to come to the ball?

_I’m not gonna lie…..the temptation to say no is very strong. It sounds like a hell on earth event  
_

I have no idea why you would have that opinion. It’s only an ostentatious ball held by my father where all the French royals will be in attendance, including the couple whose wedding you helped ruin, plus other members of European nobility and royalty. I don’t see what’s so unappealing about that scenario at all.

_Honestly, the fucking dress code is what’s upsetting me the most about it. Like, are you serious? This isn’t a massive wind-up, is it? IF I decide to come, I’m not gonna be the only one dressed like that, am I?_

As much as I’d love it to be the case, no. We’re all going to be suffering.

_Yeah, it’s gonna be a hard pass……._

You have truly broken my heart.

_What’s in it for me if I do decide to come?_

Free alcohol and my scintillating company?

_Will Combeferre be there?_

Yes.

_Good. I miss him micro-managing my time. Will you get Bahorel to beat the shit out of me if I don’t come?_

Almost certainly.

_Hmmmm…. I don’t have the clothes to meet your dress code because I’m not a fucking freak._

Unfortunately, my family ARE fucking freaks so we have clothes you can borrow.

_???? ok do you have the originals or are they replicas??? This is urgent information I need to know._

We have both originals and replicas. I imagine Dad will wear originals, but I doubt anyone else will. They’re so delicate and “”precious”” that it’d be another huge scandal if they got damaged in any way. There’s not a chance in hell we’d be trusted with originals after what happened last time.

_awwww…you and louis aren’t gonna turn up in matching originals? I would pay to see that._

The fact we’re having this ball in the first place is enough to make me wish we’d been guillotined…the only small mercy in this whole situation is that I don’t have to wear the original clothes of my ancestors.

_Can we dress you up and push you into the public? I’d love to see how fast protestors could build a guillotine for you._

I hate how much fun that sounds.

So…are you going to come? It would be nice to know there’s another guest there who finds it as absurd as I do.

_Ugh, fuck it, fine. I’ll come._

THANK YOU. There is just one other thing I forgot to mention though…

_……..what is it??_

You’ll have to wear one of the wigs too.

_YOU’RE A FUCKING MOTHER FUCKER AURELIEN!!!_

HAHAHAHAHA! You already said you’d come and Combeferre is putting you on the guest list as we speak. You’re as trapped at this event as I am!

_I’m definitely not. Watch me get Musichetta to weasel me out of it xoxoxo_

She wouldn’t, not when she spent ages working on our PR campaign – imagine how it would look if you didn’t turn up without good cause. Plus, she loves it when you don’t have fun, and I can promise it won’t be.

_Aw, shit._

* * *

Valjean pushed his thin wire glasses up his nose and clicked the top of his pen. There was a gentle fizz and a quiet popping from across the table as Grantaire dropped a Berocca into his water, propping up his head with his other hand and suppressing a yawn.

Beside him, Cosette was chewing on the ends of her hair and wondering why she still felt queasy after her heavy, greasy lunch.

“It’s hard to believe I’m going to say this to you when you both look like you’ve been dragged through hedges backwards,” Valjean said, smirking. “But…I want to offer you both official jobs in the re-election campaign.”

The First Kids looked at one another slowly, their postures immediately straightening, their mouths falling open without a sound.

“It’s okay,” Valjean said, chuckling. “You don’t have to take the jobs – I know you’ve got your own priorities and careers you want to focus on. But they’re there if you want them.”

“What are the jobs?” Grantaire asked.

“For you, I think being part of the campaign strategy team would be a good fit. Lots of-“

“Yes,” Grantaire said without waiting for the explanation, his eyes flickering like the wick of a candle in the split second before it catches light. “I’ll do it.”

Valjean grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes showing off their deep grooves. “That’s great! Although, you’re not allowed to start until after graduation.”

“Deal. It’ll be worth the wait,” Grantaire said, leaning back in his chair, fizzing with excitement as much as his glass was. He sipped at his Berocca and winced at its tangy taste.

“And for Cosette, I was thinking Digital Media Planner? It would mean analysing and monitoring campaign performance, working with the social media team, and working closely with the media, in general, to help us utilise it.”

Cosette twiddled her thumbs with a sigh. “No, Dad, I’m sorry. I already have to fight my way into writing for magazines and this would be the final nail in my journalism coffin.”

“That’s fair enough,” Valjean said kindly. “The offer is there if you change your mind though.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking down at the table and the water in front her, fiddling with the fake stones of her necklace.

“Next order of business,” Valjean said, flipping through his handwritten notes and scribbling down an additional last-minute point. “Musichetta has some media-related things to discuss, I believe.”

She had been stoic and silent through the whole meeting so far, quietly tapping away on her keyboard with barely a glance upward. Now, she smiled and lowered the lid of her laptop, the blue glow disappearing from her enviously fresh face.

“First of all, congratulations, Cosette,” she said. “Have you considered how you’re going to tell the public?”

Cosette nodded, smiling a little now, though she had the melancholic air of someone who had lost something very precious. In this instance, the thing she had lost was her bed. “I think I’m just going to casually mention it on my blog instead of doing a big reveal. Marius hasn’t decided if he’s going to announce it at all. I’m not keen on using our engagement to further our political agenda, or as an excuse for the Right to accuse us of pulling a media stunt for the election,” she pulled a face at the idea. “I’d rather it stayed fairly quiet and private.”

“I’m going to assume you don't want to do an exclusive interview with any papers or magazines then?” Musichetta asked, lifting the lid of her laptop to type a stock response to any media outlets that might request a statement when the news broke.

“Nope,” Cosette shrugged. “It’s not something that needs an interview.”

“Good call,” Valjean agreed. “I’ll make sure the media attention is kept away from your mother, too.”

Musichetta made an approving noise in the back of her throat. “We can discuss plans for Fantine’s protection with the security team later today,” she agreed. “So, that’s all on that for now…which brings us to Grantaire.” She let out a heavy sigh as she brought up a new page on her laptop.

“What have I done now?” Grantaire asked, frowning. "I thought I'd been good lately!"

“I just wanted to give everyone an update about cake-gate,” she said, almost too breezily. “Yours and the Duke’s social media accounts have seen a thirty-six percent increase of average followers, and positive media coverage has increased by twenty-three percent.”

The President seemed to glow from across the table. “That’s excellent,” he said. “Keep it up and we’ll soon have a great opportunity to influence the King and strengthen our relationship with France.”

“I thought so too,” Musichetta said, “so imagine my surprise when, only a few minutes before this meeting, I received a phone call from Combeferre to tell me you’ve agreed to attend an important royal ball in two weeks without consulting any of us first.”

Grantaire glanced around the room and pursed his lips. Everyone was staring at him blankly, their brows slowly setting into a confused slope. “The Devil works hard but Enjolras works harder,” he said under his breath with a shrug. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Have you seen the guest list?” Musichetta asked. “Did you even wonder or ask who else might be attending this event?”

“No, I didn't ask for specifics,” Grantaire admitted. “But Enjolras insisted that I come, and I thought it would be good for PR.”

Valjean leaned forward in his chair, a deep look of concentration plastered across his face. He poised his pen over his pad of paper and clicked its top. “Who else is on the guest list?”

“The entirety of the Duke’s family – the King, the Dauphin, the Dauphine, the King’s brother and his children, Mademoiselle Héloïse and Monsieur Montparnasse. Then there's the Count of Champagne and other noble, aristocratic friends of the King. I’ll forward you that complete list," she said as a side note to Valjean. "It also seems that other nobles from neighbouring countries will be attending too. Most notably the descendants of the House of Hanover, distant relatives of the British royal family, the Infanta of Spain, and Princess Josephine of Belgium and her father, the King…and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve not seen a guest list so long nor one with so many titles on it.”

The only noise was the scratch of Valjean’s pen against the paper and his considering hum. He chewed the inside of his cheek and scratched his forehead. “That’s a lot of royals to impress, with two Kings, no less…” he sighed, tapping the nib of his pen on the paper, “and although you’re winning back the public, you’re struggling to win back the respect of King Louis and the Dauphin…”

“Enjolras and I seem to be getting on pretty well,” Grantaire admitted. “I wouldn’t have agreed to go if I didn’t think we could remain civil. I promise the Duke won’t end up in another cake.”

“It’s not the Duke I’m worried about,” Valjean said. “Chetta, is Grantaire the only American invitee?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Valjean nodded and underlined something on his page. “That certainly puts us in a unique position…and it would look good to the public and the press if you’ve been allowed to attend another Versailles event…” he took off his glasses and placed them neatly beside his notes, keeping them parallel for no discernible reason. “Have you got any university deadlines in the next few weeks?”

“No,” Grantaire said. “I’m on top of all that.”

“Okay…in that case, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go,” Valjean decided. “It would be a good opportunity for you, and the rest of us, of course. It might be a good idea for you to brush up on your French though…and I’ll schedule you in for some Dutch lessons for the Belgian King,” he added to himself, scribbling on the paper again.

“Can you dance?” Cosette asked gently, smirking as everyone stared at her like confused puppies, their heads tilted to the side. “It’s a ball, right? Those are kind of famous for all the dancing.”

“We’ll put you down for dance classes too,” Valjean said to a wide-eyed, red-faced Grantaire. “You’re going to be representing myself and the rest of America on this trip, after all. It’s better that you’re prepared.”

Grantaire swallowed the large lump that had formed in his throat and shuffled in his chair. “Okay…no pressure then.”

“None whatsoever,” his father said, turning his attention back to his notes, though Grantaire didn’t believe him.

* * *

“Dance lessons?” Enjolras repeated, closing his book and grinning, glad that Grantaire couldn’t see just how funny he found it.

Grantaire padded across his bedroom to close the curtains, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. “Yep, and I’m absolutely dreading it. I’m starting to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

“I don’t know about that,” Enjolras said, untangling his long limbs from his silk bedsheets. “I think some lessons in grace and decorum could do you good.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m incredibly-,” with perfect timing, Grantaire tripped over his own abandoned shoes as he walked to the bed, falling on it with a huff. “Graceful.”

“Did you just fall over?”

“No, and you can’t prove that I did so you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”

“Sure, I didn’t _see_ you do it,” Enjolras said, staring up at the canopy above him, “but I know what it sounds like when someone falls over. Your dance teacher has clearly got their work cut out for them.”

Grantaire hummed and sat on the bed, staring at a cobweb around his lampshade. “I can’t decide if I want the teacher to be fit or not,” he said, leaning forward to take off his socks. “Is it easier or harder to dance with someone you find attractive? When people who fancy each other dance in movies, it’s either intense and sexy or awkward and cringeworthy.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said, quietly clearing his throat. “I’ve never danced with someone I like like that.”

“Really?” Grantaire asked, raising his eyebrows. His heart beat arrhythmically and he mentally told himself to go to the gym and eat vegetables more often. “You’re the last royal bachelor in France, aren’t you? You’ve got the pick of the girls.”

Enjolras paused and frowned, wondering if he had heard him right. Not only was his cousin Montparnasse as single as he was, the idea that he could choose any woman he wanted…Well, he burst out laughing, letting out a small snort, and covered his mouth with his hand.

“I mean, sure…” he said, “you can look at it that way if you really want, but I have less choice than you think.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asked. “Why are you laughing?”

“It doesn’t matter. If you don’t know then you don’t know,” Enjolras said, letting his laughter peter out. He put his book on the nightstand and fluffed up his pillows, suppressing a yawn as he did. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing much,” Grantaire admitted. “It’s still early so I’ll probably do some studying for an hour or so and then find something shitty to watch on TV. What about you?”

“Just lying in bed,” Enjolras said. “I was trying to read but I couldn’t focus.”

“You need some hobbies or a better sleep schedule,” Grantaire quipped, echoing what Cosette often told him. He folded his legs underneath him and leaned across the bed to grab his notebook from the desk.

“You need a better sleep schedule too,” Enjolras pointed out, pretending to be greatly offended. “How dare you paint me with the same brush as you.”

Grantaire laughed and opened his laptop, his phone still tucked between his shoulder and ear. He happily ignored the uncomfortable stiffness forming his neck. “Ah, yes, but I have several hobbies. Your hobbies include being smug and boring and I don’t think those provide enough entertainment.”

“You’re forgetting my favourite hobby,” Enjolras said through a yawn. He stretched his free arm above his head and felt his shoulder click. “Annoying and bullying you. I think I’m getting quite good at it…if I keep going, I might be able to go professional before the end of summer.”

Making a sceptical noise through his crooked nose, Grantaire started making study cards for his Jurisprudence and Legal Theory class. “You’re not as good at it as you used to be,” he told him. “You used to make my blood boil but now you feel like an annoying fly I can’t get rid of.”

“I’ll take that,” Enjolras said, laying his head on the pillow, exhaustion washing over him like the tide. “It’s a quiet kind of annoying…that’s much nicer, and in some way, much worse than being loudly annoying.”

“I don’t want to say that you’re right,” Grantaire said, smiling fondly, “so I won’t. Instead, I’ll just lament and blame you again for the fact I’m spending the next week learning how to waltz and speak Dutch to impress your Dad’s friends.”

“Hmmm?” Enjolras said, fighting to keep his eyes open, his mouth downturned in a pout. “Dutch?”

“Yeah, Dad’s told me to brush up on my French and learn Dutch so I can impress the Belgian King and Princess. I guess he doesn’t want me to upset King Louis’ allies, which is fair enough, I guess.” Grantaire quickly scribbled down an idea for a Debate Club topic in the corner of his flashcard: _is patriotism ultimately destructive to international relations?_

Enjolras yawned again. “Princess Josephine…” he muttered, feeling his eyelids close. “They want me to…to ma…to mar-“ His voice trailed off faintly until it was silent, the Duke unable to fight sleep any longer. His hand gently released its grip on the phone.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows, smiling to himself as he checked the time in Versailles: 3:23 am. “Enjolras?” he sang. “Have you fallen asleep?” He waited for a few seconds and let out a pleased yelp of a laugh. “Okay, okay…stay silent if you think I’m the greatest man to ever walk the Earth and you get jealous every time you see and talk to me because you know you can never compete…” Grantaire paused, a childish grin spread across his face as more silence followed.

A few weeks ago, he might have played the sound an air horn down the phone just to hear Enjolras’ confused and terrified screech, but instead, he chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pen. Images of Enjolras in the mint library of Versailles, his soft jersey pyjamas, and the golden halo of his hair brushing his shoulders flooded his brain. He hadn’t thought about that moment since that night, but now Grantaire felt a warmth in his belly as he imagined Enjolras' ivory features surrounded by gentle moonlight.

“Goodnight, Enjolras. Sweet dreams…you deserve them.” He waited a few seconds more, hearing Enjolras’ deep breathing on the other line, and then hung up, going back to his studying and wondering why he felt so disjointed.


	8. The Bird in Borrowed Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: The Labyrinth featured in this chapter was destroyed by Louis XVI in 1778 so he could have an English Garden built for Marie Antoinette. However, I've decided to erase that part of history because I liked the symbolism of the labyrinth better...and because Louis XVI was a bitch and I can do whatever I like xoxo

Pulling at his large, stiff jacket cuffs and shaking the lace of his sleeves, he pulled a horrified face in the mirror; lips curled, and bushy brows furrowed. He tilted his head, noticing how strange he looked without a neck, now that it was hidden by layers of ruffles that made him look like a lace doily.

“How do you move your head in this thing?” Grantaire asked, demonstrating by turning his head and immediately getting a mouthful of lace for his efforts.

“You don’t,” Enjolras said with a smirk from the edge of his bed, not yet having changed himself. “The jabot, cravat, and collar all act like a horse’s blinker.”

Grantaire groaned and bent his legs to check the manoeuvrability of his knee-length breeches, the yellow gold a blinding presence on his athletic frame. “The tights don’t half ride up a bit,” he complained.

“You just have to get used to it,” Enjolras said, looking at Grantaire through the mirror. “It’s only for a night and then you never have to do it again. I have to wear this shit semi-regularly.”

“It’s horrible,” Grantaire said, taking another look at the forest green jacket and waistcoat. He thoroughly inspected the deep yellow embroidery adorning the edges of both. “I feel so sorry for you.”

“You should. My life is terrible,” he said, only half-joking. “At least the colour looks good on you.”

Grantaire pulled a nauseated face. “Really? I think it looks like someone’s been sick on me.”

“I picked it for you,” Enjolras said, deadpan.

A hot flush flashed across Grantaire’s face. “Oh…” he took another look in the mirror, keenly aware of how dry his throat had become. “I guess it’s not horrendous…at least the colour brings out my eyes.”

“Does it?” Enjolras asked, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his gaze. “I can’t say I’ve noticed…” He cleared his throat as Grantaire gave him a small, lopsided smile of an apology. “So…are you ready to try on the shoes and wig?”

“Hell no, I’m putting those on at the last possible moment,” Grantaire said, walking away from the mirror and flinging himself dramatically on the white velvet chaise lounge by Enjolras’ bed.

He hadn’t thought much about Enjolras’ bedroom in the time he’d known him. It had felt too private to even _imagine_ what it looked like, so when he followed him into the room a few hours ago, it felt like breaking into a church.

It was a quiet and gentle place, and, on the surface, it was a room of historical preservation filled with ornate, burnt-sienna furniture. A matching antique piano sat in the corner by one of the large, impossibly clean windows. But, on closer inspection, Enjolras’ life and personality were bleeding through the walls and surfaces.

On the bedside table was a stack of books including titles such as _Candide_ , _Dangerous Liaisons_ , and _The Little Prince_ , the spines lovingly cracked and their pages well-thumbed. His forgotten coffee mug was sitting on the windowsill, half-full and ice-cold, a dark brown stain running down the side and blemishing the wood of the sill.

Hanging on of the simple walls was his highest honours degree certificate in a simple black frame, beside it, a picture of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac smiling broadly around a little café table, all looking comfortable and contented, Courfeyrac’s arms thrown around their shoulders. Below it, and to Grantaire’s surprise, was the picture Combeferre took of Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire at the chocolate festival. He smiled and felt his gut twist, but he didn’t mention the photograph to Enjolras. For some reason, he didn’t even _want_ to make a teasing quip of how honoured he was to have made the wall.

Grantaire noticed a third photograph in the tableau, but he didn’t dare stare at it until he was sure Enjolras wasn’t looking. It felt like an intimately private piece of Enjolras’ childhood that he felt ashamed for prying into.

In the picture, Queen Marguerite was grinning from ear to ear in a simple, pale pink summer dress, her face gently shadowed by the oversized straw hat perched at a fashionable angle on her elegantly styled hair, a few gentle freckles jewelling her face. She had her arms wrapped around a chubby child in blue shorts and a nautical, striped top, his white-blonde curls wild and soft in the golden-hour sunlight. His plump hands and fingers reached for the camera.

There were some similarities between Enjolras and his mother, Grantaire thought. Namely their pointed chins and their soft gazes, the latter of which was more prominent in Enjolras whenever he let out a real laugh. Though, compared to the official portrait of Marguerite, he could still recognise the same strong, jaded look she displayed set deep in Enjolras’ bone structure and in the way he held his head.

Grantaire sat up on the chaise lounge, a sudden question burning on his tongue as he dragged his eyes from the photos to the second entrance of Enjolras’ bedroom.

“How come I’m not staying in the Queen’s Apartment this time?” He tried to shuffle into a comfortable position – a task made impossible by his habit à la française. “I mean, I’m glad I don’t have to look at that ugly wallpaper tonight, but I can’t help but feel snubbed by being chucked into a hotel,” he teased.

Enjolras’ throat pulsed as he shrugged and picked at the loose embroidery on his bedsheets. “Uhm, I think Princess Josephine is staying in the Queen’s room.”

“Oh, I see,” Grantaire said, smiling lightly. “A princess outranks the son of the president.”

“She’s only tenth in line for the throne,” Enjolras said, “and I don’t really know her that well. I’d much rather an actual friend was staying there tonight.”

A knock on the door interrupted whatever Grantaire was going to say next. He sat back on the lounge and smiled politely as Combeferre entered, suddenly feeling horrifically self-conscious in his elaborate outfit.

“Your costume is ready, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, handing him a small pill as he’d done at the chocolate festival. “His Majesty,” he added, a tightness behind the words as he watched Enjolras dry swallow the tablet, “would like to see you before the guests arrive.”

Enjolras gave him a slight nod and stood to attention. “Of course, thank you, Combeferre. I’ll be along in a moment.”

“As you wish,” Combeferre said, making his way out of the room and taking another glance at Grantaire. He grinned, clearly amused. “You look interesting.”

“I’m not sure it’s quite my style,” Grantaire agreed. “Don’t you have a costume to change into too?” he asked, envious of the standard black suit and tie he was sporting.

“No, I’m not an official guest,” he explained. “I’ll be behind the scenes making sure everything runs smoothly.” Combeferre smiled coquettishly, “we’ve been told to keep a particularly close eye on you.”

Grantaire flashed an amused grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You really shouldn’t,” Combeferre quipped. “Twenty minutes, Enjolras,” he added as he left.

“I can see why you’re friends with him,” Grantaire said to Enjolras, tossing his arm over the back of the lounge. “He hates me as much as you used to.”

Enjolras shook his head and grabbed Grantaire’s shoes and wig from his closet. “He doesn’t, and I never _hated_ you. I only hit back at you because you hated me.” He handed the last items of Grantaire’s costume to him. “I’ll meet you in the Hall of Mirrors in a bit. Please don’t make me regret leaving you unsupervised.”

“I promise to be on my best behaviour,” he said, staring up at the prince’s mildly concerned expression, letting his fingertips gently brush Enjolras’ marble hands as he took the shoes.

* * *

It was like looking at a big-budget movie set. The whole room was filled with ridiculous costumes and towering wigs, people teetering in their pointed, embroidered heels, and women surrounded by frills and silk who moved through the crowd with raucous laughter as they kept bumping into one another with their inconveniently wide skirts.

“There you are,” Enjolras said, sidling up to Grantaire. “It’s practically impossible to see anyone through all these skirts, isn’t it?”

Grantaire grinned, doing a sly double-take at Enjolras’ neat, red wine-coloured costume. Through the silk, Grantaire could see the slight contours of his biceps and his surprisingly toned thigh muscles under his breeches.

The light stockings gently caressed the curve of his calf and the sharp point of his ankle. It was horrendously outlandish as a costume, yet it was so typical of Enjolras to be able to make it look good.

All Grantaire could think to say out loud however, was, “Hey, how come you don’t have to wear a wig?!”

“Because it would be a crime to hide hair this gorgeous,” he fired back, grinning despite his obvious discomfort. He noticed a large woman approaching them and his back stiffened. “It’s Catalina, Infanta of Spain,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t say or do anything stupid.”

“As if I would,” Grantaire said pompously, straightening his jacket.

“Monsieur le Duc de Normandie,” Catalina cried out, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a pleasure to see you as always,” she said. “King Louis has outdone himself yet again!” She tapped Enjolras convivially on the arm with her black lace fan.

“He certainly has,” Enjolras answered, taking a deep breath. “May I introduce you to my good friend, Grantaire, the First Son of the United States?” He gestured to Grantaire and took half a step back.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” Grantaire said in his native Spanish, bowing politely. “I’ve heard much about you from the Duke and, may I say, you’re even more remarkable in person,” he lied.

The pride in her face made her chubby cheeks dimple. “Your Spanish is very impressive,” she said. “Your father’s presidency has surprised many of us in Europe. We’re looking forward to seeing how the campaign plays out this year.”

“We’ve enjoyed serving and caring for the American people,” Grantaire said. “We hope that the people believe in us as much as we believe in them and they'll give us a second term to keep our work going. It’s certainly going to be an exciting and nerve-wracking year for us.”

Catalina looked Grantaire up and down, an unreadable expression on her face as she appraised him. “You seem like a bright young man. I think the Duke is incredibly lucky to have you as a friend…the media targeted you both horrendously.”

“Thank you,” he said. “The opinion of our European allies matters to us greatly.”

Catalina seemed satisfied with this, and her attention began to waver as she saw King Louis crossing the floor towards the Belgian King on the other side of the room. She excused herself, and with a final flick of her fan and skirt, sauntered off after him.

“I didn’t know you could speak Spanish…” Enjolras said, his wide pupils darkening the usual delicate azure of his eyes. He twisted his hands behind his back and smiled at him. “How many other hidden talents do you have?”

Grantaire shrugged, smiling back and wishing his hands weren’t so clammy. “My birth parents spoke Spanish, so I grew up speaking that and English,” he explained. “Dad encouraged me to keep speaking and learning Spanish as a kid…he even started learning it himself. I’m a little out of practice with my Spanish now though.” He laughed and went to put his hand in a pocket that wasn’t there. “I hope I didn’t accidentally declare war or anything.”

“She looked impressed,” Enjolras assured him, “and so am I.”

Faking a gasp, Grantaire beamed. “God, is that a genuine compliment?” he asked. “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Can I get you some smelling salts?”

“I hate you so much,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes and striding towards a server carrying a tray of champagne.

“I thought you said you never hated me!” Grantaire laughed, following him swiftly yet carefully on the polished floor. He picked up a glass and thanked the server.

Enjolras shrugged a shoulder and sipped on his champagne. It was sweeter than what had been served at the wedding and made his mouth water. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said, smiling furtively. “Come on, I need to pretend I’m being a good little prince for half an hour before I retreat and do the bare minimum again,” he grabbed Grantaire’s hand and pulled him across the dance floor to meet other nobles and royals he had no interest in and/or couldn’t stand to be alone with for more than a minute.  
  
Grantaire’s heart leapt into his throat as he allowed himself to be pulled around the ballroom – there was something about Enjolras’ smile that made Grantaire think this was the most fun Enjolras had had at a royal event for some time.

After greeting the Belgian King, they were quietly laughing at how the Hereditary Prince of Hanover’s moustache and thick monobrow were identical, Enjolras snorting and covering his mouth as Grantaire told him the average man with a moustache touched it seven hundred times a day. As he said it, the prince smoothed it with his fingers which only made them laugh harder.

“ _Aurélien_ ,” said a stern voice from behind them, immediately shutting them both up. Suddenly, it felt as though all the positive energy around them had been snuffed out. “You’ve neglected Princess Josephine. Isn’t it time you danced with her?” Louis-Joseph asked, looking self-important in his midnight blue and gold costume, Manon hanging off his arm in a matching dress and soaring wig.

“I’m well aware, Louis,” Enjolras said, looking at him with a steel-like gaze. “I was just introducing Grantaire to-“

“Grantaire can introduce himself to the other guests,” Louis said sharply. “You don’t need to do it for him. Go and dance with the princess before father notices you’ve been shirking your duty,” he smiled, slow and saccharine. “You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Enjolras took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes, his hand tensing around his half-empty champagne flute. “One dance, Louis,” he said, holding his head high. “I’m not a performing monkey.”

“You’ll be who we tell you to be. Get to it,” Louis said, staring at Enjolras in a way that reminded Grantaire of how Musichetta glared at him whenever she caught him acting undisciplined, only, this was a hundred times more severe than that.

After a tense moment, Enjolras shared an apologetic look with Grantaire and reluctantly walked away. Once he'd given his glass to a server and thanked them, he tapped a young woman on the shoulder with the robotic smile Grantaire knew so well but hadn’t seen for a while.

Josephine looked like a tangerine in her too-wide, bright orange and yellow dress, and looked even more absurd thanks to the collection canary yellow feathers (all varying in size from cockatiel to ostrich) sticking out of the back of her too-tall hair.

Grantaire swallowed down the last of his champagne and turned to Louis, who was now glaring at him with an overtly disapproving look. “Monsieur le Dauphin, Madame le Dauphine,” he said, bowing low. “Thank you for allowing me back here this evening. It’s a great honour and I’m deeply sorry for my part in the accident at your wedding.”

Louis waved dismissively at him. “You’re here because it was the only way we could get Aurélien to do as he was asked for once,” he spat. “If you dare embarrass us again, we’re going to make life extremely hard for you. How _you_ managed to get into a position of power, we’ll never know.”

With a final disparaging sneer, Louis turned on his heel and walked away, Manon swishing her skirt so it slapped Grantaire across the legs as she went. Grantaire frowned as they circulated the crowd, Louis seemingly looking away from whomever he was talking to every few seconds to check if Enjolras was still dancing with the Belgian princess.

Unsettled and feeling somewhat queasy, Grantaire tore himself away from the spot to get another drink. He leaned against the wall on the far end of the hall, slowly and steadily drinking from the glass without moving it away from his lips. Enjolras waltzed with Josephine with the utmost grace – for the most part, he was paying her close attention, smiling courteously and laughing when it was appropriate, his graceful hand pressed firmly against her shoulder blade. He looked like a born dancer with his strong frame and effortless charisma.

But it wasn’t real.

Enjolras was a finer actor than he was a dancer, a duke, or a prince. He was someone who snorted when he laughed. He hadn’t stopped chuckling for at least ten minutes when Grantaire told him the following unfunny joke:

_I asked my French friend if he liked to play video games. He said, "Wii."_

He was someone who felt more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt than a suit. He was someone who loved lounging in soft pyjamas and eating croque monsieurs for breakfast, washed down with a double espresso. He played board games with his friends every week without fail and he always remembered the little details about a person.

For example, Cosette had been so thrilled about the sunglasses he’d bought for her, she’d crooned about them for days.

“I only mentioned how much I loved them on my blog once and that was _weeks_ ago, maybe even months,” she said, grinning wildly. “I can’t believe he remembered or that he went to the trouble of reading through my posts to find something he’d know I’d adore. He's just so _nice_ , isn't he?”

Grantaire’s heart fluttered in his chest like a bird trapped in a cage that was too small for it; its wings beating furiously as it knocked against his ribs. Occasionally, Enjolras would break his perfect posture to look for Grantaire in the crowd, his face lined with concern, and once he managed to catch his eye, he smiled genuinely as a promise that he’d be back soon.

“Il danse avec elle maintenant,” said Louis-Joseph from somewhere unseen behind him.

Grantaire frowned and let his eyes dart around the room. He couldn’t find the Dauphin, but the Dauphine was gossiping with the Infanta behind her fan. More French words were murmured somewhere near him and he strained his ears to follow the sound amongst the music of the orchestra.

There was a door to his right, tantalisingly ajar. He peered around it and found himself looking into an antechamber where Louis was talking with the King. The King himself was wearing a white suit that was heavily embroidered with real gold thread, a heavy fur robe draped around his stately shoulders.

“He’s too close to the American boy,” Louis continued, making Grantaire step back and press himself against the wall. Finally, his limited grasp of French was coming in useful, and admittedly, he was glad Valjean had made him fine-tune his skills before coming here. “He’s not a good influence on him. I basically had to drag him to the Princess…he’s ignored her all night so far, all to pay attention to the _American_. To make matters worse, I heard that he’s not even a _real_ American, so what he’s doing with him, I’ll never know.”

“I’m not worried about him,” the King said. “He’s a mere distraction and a passing fancy. Aurélien was a liability to this family long before he made friends with him.”

Footsteps sounded as Louis-Joseph paced the antechamber. “I’m starting to think it was a bad idea to let the boy come. Aurélien would be far easier to... _influence..._ on his own.”

“Stop panicking, Louis,” the King snapped. “We have this under control. He is but one rebellious child…we have our plans; we have hundreds of years of legacy to weigh him down with. We can force him into any number of royal appearances to keep him busy. All we must do is keep him thinking that we’re on his side…if that means indulging in his friendship with the American pretender, then so be it. It won’t last forever. Once he marries Josephine, things will be much easier for us.”

Grantaire bit down on his lip so hard that he could taste blood. Across the room, Enjolras was whispering something in Josephine’s ear, making her laugh gleefully and prettily. The sight made Grantaire feel physically sick, but the words he was hearing frightened him.

“Do you think he’ll actually marry her?” Louis asked. “He’s resisted us on it so far...”

“She’s a good match for him and the marriage will strengthen our alliance with Belgium,” the King pointed out. “It would be a great thing for France, and we all know how concerned he is with doing the right thing for the country,” he said, laughing as though it were the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “He’ll marry her,” he resumed, becoming a little too calm and collected. “If he knows what’s good for him, and he certainly should by now, he’ll marry her. The boy knows what happens when he disobeys,” he added darkly.

Grantaire had heard enough. He pulled himself from the wall and began to dash through the dancing couples, apologising as he stepped on skirts or knocked into shoulders. The further he walked along the hall, the further away Enjolras seemed to be. Always just out of reach. He kept his eyes fixed on the feathers of the Princess, using them as a gaudy guiding star.

It felt like he’d been running for hours by the time he reached Enjolras - he tapped him on the shoulder with a shaky hand before bowing to the princess. “Excuse me, Your Royal Highness,” Grantaire said to her in his faltering Dutch, then switched to comfortable French. “May I borrow your partner for a few minutes? It’s urgent.”

She looked at him, baffled, and turned her attention to Enjolras, who seemed to be experiencing three emotions at once: relief, confusion, and annoyance. “I suppose so,” Josephine relented, her thin eyebrows rising high on her narrow forehead.

“I’m sorry, Josephine,” Enjolras said, noticing the worry lines in Grantaire’s face. “I shan’t be long.”

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?” Grantaire asked, leading Enjolras away by the elbow. “The antechamber clearly isn’t as infallible as some people think.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Take us somewhere private and I’ll tell you,” Grantaire said, looking around the hall with the aura of a skittish meerkat.

Enjolras sighed and glanced around too. “Outside,” he decided. “The Labyrinth is a good place to get some privacy.”

Unnoticed, they slipped through the spinning dresses and tailcoats, escaping into the cool night air via the Hall of Mirror’s glass doors. The February frost was melting into a pleasant March warmth beneath their feet – colourful spring flowers beginning to sprout along the paths and hedgerows.

The large fountain that greeted them outside was as still as a mirror in the silent evening, reflecting its own image and that of two famous sons who raced across the fine gravel. In the distance, there were deep green shrubs and a man, snipping away at the overgrown branches with a large pair of secateurs, guided only by the dim light of the floor lamps.

“Jehan!” Enjolras called as they approached him. “What are you still doing here?”

The gardener turned and smiled tightly. “The King wanted this finished as soon as possible, so here I am, yet again,” he explained, beginning to yawn. “Who’s this?” he asked, wielding his secateurs at Grantaire.

In response, Grantaire groaned impatiently and headed into the maze without Enjolras or a word to Jehan.

“I take it that’s Grantaire then?” Jehan asked.

“What gave it away?” Enjolras answered, laughing lightly. “Look, can you do me a huge favour? If you can, I need you to keep people away from The Bird in Borrowed Feathers.”

“Of course,” Jehan said cheerfully, tucking his secateurs under his arm.

“Thank you!” Enjolras said, quickly kissing him on the cheek before following Grantaire into the maze. He pulled him in the opposite direction once he’d caught up with him. “What’s going on? Why are you acting so weird?”

Grantaire pulled off his wig and clutched it in his hand, wiping his forehead with the back of his warm wrist. “I heard the King and Louis talking about you like they were villains in a fucking Shakespeare play.”

“So?” Enjolras said, leading him around a corner to one of the most beautiful maze dead-ends Grantaire had ever seen. “They do it all the time.”

Standing before them was another fountain, this one much smaller than the one in the main garden, but no less grand or impressive. The gentle spraying of water from the sculpture was pleasant static noise against the quiet, and Enjolras sat on the fountain’s edge, feeling a cool mist of water spraying his back as it splashed into the reservoir. At the top of the fountain sat a statue of a jackdaw with the tail feathers of a peacock attached to its own plumage, water spilling from its pointed beak.

Grantaire sat beside him on the fountain and dropped the cumbersome wig in the grass. “It kind of seemed like they were plotting against you,” he said, fully aware of how insane it sounded. “Like…are you okay? Do you need help? Blink once for yes and twice for no…” he added, looking at Enjolras with genuine concern.

Enjolras just offered him a bewildered stare, making an effort not to blink at all. “I’m fine,” he said, laughing nervously. “Do _you_ need help?”

Grantaire shook his head and groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. “Are you going to marry Princess Josephine?” he suddenly burst out, making Enjolras recoil.

“Of course not,” Enjolras scoffed. “They want me to, but I won’t. I don’t want to be a member of _this_ royal family so I’m certainly not about to marry into another.”

“How long have they wanted you to marry her?”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose as he thought about it. “It was shortly after Louis’ wedding when they started discussing it. They seem to be under the impression that marrying me off will solve all their problems regarding me…so they’re pushing the issue quite firmly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me they’re trying to pressure you into marriage?” Grantaire asked with a frown.

“I tried,” Enjolras shrugged, “but then I fell asleep and forgot about it because it’s not as big a deal as it sounds. Look, nothing’s going to come from it and I’m perfectly okay. I’m not going to marry her, nor can they make me. Dad and Louis can be overdramatic, that’s all.”

Grantaire nodded, chewing on the skin around his thumbnail, his face set in an apprehensive frown. “You left Cosette’s party for a meeting in Belgium,” he said slowly. “It was a meeting with her, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. The King wanted me to personally invite her to tonight’s ball as my date,” Enjolras admitted. “Though I would have much preferred hanging out with you all night and getting to know your friends.”

Grantaire got up and started pacing around the fountain, looking for some way to rid himself of all the energy bubbling in his stomach. “God, I’m sorry that your father and brother care so little about you and what you want from life.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said, his eyes following Grantaire. “I have plenty of allies around the palace.”

“Would you marry her if she weren’t a princess?” Grantaire asked as he passed in front of Enjolras on his second lap. He wasn’t sure why he asked, perhaps he just wanted to know out of a sense of morbid curiosity. His answer wouldn’t make a difference anyway.

He kept walking around the fountain, trying to organise his thoughts and what he knew about Enjolras’ life into something that made sense outside of fairytales.

“No,” Enjolras said, watching him with beady, sparkling eyes and a small smile. “She’s not my type.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, nodding as he walked. “What _is_ your type?”

Enjolras licked his bottom lip and sighed, folding his hands together in his lap. “Well…they would be highly politically minded, kind and caring, we’d share the same values, they would know that puns are my favourite form of joke…” he paused and knocked his thumb against the back of his hand, staring at the wig on the ground. “They wouldn’t be afraid to tell me when they thought I was being a dick, they’d be a brilliant yet modest artist, and their sleep schedule would be as shit as mine.”

After a moment, Grantaire cleared his throat and stopped pacing, landing in front of Enjolras. He began to tap his foot on the ground instead, just for something to do. “I imagine there are plenty of guests like that at a ball like this.”

“For someone who is _so_ intelligent, you’re so fucking stupid,” Enjolras said, jumping up from the fountain and grabbing Grantaire’s face between his hands. Quick as a flash, he planted a firm kiss on Grantaire’s unsuspecting lips, tasting nothing but sweet champagne tinged with worry.

Grantaire stumbled, his breath caught in his throat as the bird in his chest once again tried to take flight. He was grossly aware of his hands hanging limply and uselessly at his side, but Enjolras pulled back before he could think of something to do with them.

“Oh…” Grantaire repeated, quieter this time, raising his fingers to his kissed-warm mouth. He looked up at Enjolras just as he turned to leave the maze, his face aflame. “ _Oh…_ Enjolras, wait!” Finding the strength from god knows where to move, he swiftly reached for Enjolras hand and pulled him back. “Don’t kiss me and then run away.”

Enjolras nodded and forced himself to look Grantaire in the eyes. “Now do you see why I can’t marry her?” He squeezed Grantaire’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Grantaire answered, spotting the growing relaxation in Enjolras’ brow and the slight downturn of his mouth. He ran his thumb over Enjolras’ knuckles, feeling a pleasant tingle lingering across his lips. “Yeah, I see it. _She’s_ not your type…”

Before he could lose his nerve, Grantaire leaned forward and kissed him, fierce and urgent, as though Enjolras would collapse into dust if he didn’t seize his opportunity now. He slid a hand to Enjolras’ face, using his thumb to caress his cheekbone, letting his fingers lightly trail over his neck and into the thick, feathery tendrils of his hair.

The Duke whimpered from the back of his throat, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist and pressing himself as close as he could, deepening the kiss and brushing his tongue against Grantaire’s.

A kiss from Enjolras was unlike any kiss Grantaire had had before. It wasn’t presented as a passionless chore in the way Chelsea used to kiss him before she left him for another guy on their course, nor was it raw and primal like Zach used to kiss him in his basement bedroom at high school. Enjolras straddled the two, hungry and wanting, but pacing himself like he was afraid to take too much at once in case it was confiscated from him.

It was Grantaire who pulled their lips apart this time, smiling goofily and pressing his forehead against Enjolras’. “I didn’t want to say this before,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “but you look very sexy in breeches.”

Enjolras laughed and kissed Grantaire’s jaw, lace tickling his chin as he did. “As much as I’d love to say you look sexy too, you’re dressed like one of my ancestors and that’s very weird for me.”

“I’m so pleased I get to be a part of your Freudian nightmare,” Grantaire teased, kissing his lips again.

Enjolras hummed and began sliding his hands down Grantaire’s back, stopping at the gentle curve of his ass. “I have to go back…” he said through a regretful sigh. “They’ll notice I’m gone.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“Of course not.”

“Then don’t,” Grantaire said, stroking Enjolras’ cheek with his thumb again. “We can get changed, go back to my hotel room, and maybe get sexy _without_ our breeches...if that’s something you’d be interested in?” He grinned and kissed him with the lightest of touches. Now that he’d started kissing him, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to stop.

Enjolras groaned, conflicted, and squeezed Grantaire’s ass. “Fuck it, okay,” he decided on impulse, his heart leaping into his mouth and his belly glowing with warmth. “I’ll have to meet you there so I have time to organise my escape with Combeferre and Bahorel.”

Grantaire leaned back, genuine surprise lighting his eyes. “What, really? You actually want to come?”

“Do you think I’d be making out with you and grabbing your ass if I didn’t?” Enjolras challenged.

“You might,” Grantaire argued. “I don’t know what’s going on right now,” he admitted sheepishly, “there’s a lot for my brain process.”

Enjolras smiled and peeled himself away from Grantaire, straightening out his costume, his cheeks still flushed as he checked his hair ribbon was still in place. “What’s your room number?”

“Uh, 413,” Grantaire said, following Enjolras out of the maze with a clumsy step that made him feel drunk.

“I’ll be there before midnight,” he promised, leaning against a statue at the entrance of the maze. He noticed Jehan a few metres away, still trimming at the maze’s overgrowth. “That’ll give your brain enough time to process this, right?”

Grantaire nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah…I should think so.”

“Good.” Enjolras quickly checked to see if anyone was watching them before giving him a final, intense kiss that left Grantaire feeling winded.

Once Enjolras had forced himself to turn away, Grantaire watched him return to the palace, his head dizzy and mouth parched - the taste of Enjolras still on his tongue.

Slowly, he walked back to the palace himself, his wig forgotten and limp with dew beside the Bird in Borrowed Feathers.


	9. Grantaire Has Some Thoughts and Almost None of Them Are Coherent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter is supposed to feel a little chaotic to read because, well, read the title of the chapter and take a guess! :P Anyway, I'm warning you in case you read it and you feel it doesn't quite work as a style :D On the bright side, there's only, like, one more experimental chapter to go and that's not until much later in the story...!

With no clock in the hotel room, (and too much anxiety over whether Enjolras might have texted to do the sensible thing and cancel to check the time on his phone), all Grantaire could think to do was sit on the edge of the bed and pick at the skin around his thumbnail in silence.

Unable to sit idle with an empty head for much longer, he decided to do what Enjolras had told him: try and get his head wrapped around it. If he didn’t, he risked everything blowing up in his face quite spectacularly, and if he thought Musichetta had been angry before, it would be nothing compared to her finding out about whatever the hell was going on now.

Whilst Grantaire felt more comfortable in his change of clothes, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a character in a film, waiting for his cue in a stupid costume that didn’t quite fit.

He thought that, if this were a movie and he was five years younger, this might be a pivotal moment in his coming of age story. Someone would overlay the scene of his emotional turmoil with melancholy indie music from a band no-one had ever heard of so they wouldn’t have to pay too much in royalties.

Thinking about it, maybe, just _maybe_ , Éponine was right when she said Enjolras was his type.

He _was_ very pretty – that couldn’t be denied, and begrudgingly, he’d always thought so. Apart from his apparent rudeness the first time they met, his statuesque features and flawless bone structure were two of the lasting impressions he had of the Duke.

And _yes_ , part of Enjolras’ appeal was that they had disliked one another initially – it was somewhat exciting and mildly homoerotic when they stared at one another with penetrating, narrowed eyes from across the room, taunting one another and circling each other like rival lions on wild terrain.

It had been almost the same with Chelsea. They’d constantly swapped insults and told each other they hated one another. Perhaps, at the time, Grantaire thought he didn’t deserve any better than that. It wasn’t really a surprise when he found out she was cheating on him, and he wasn’t particularly upset about it either. Weirdly, a relationship built on nothing but a passionate mutual dislike for one another never worked out. Who would have thought?

But it never felt that cruel when he did it with Enjolras. Behind their natural conflict was always a flicker of respect and admiration for one another.

Unattainable. That had been the main barrier between them, and with one swift kiss, Enjolras had shattered that protective wall.

When the glass had been between them, Grantaire could let his mind wander at a safe distance. He could think about Enjolras’ cherubic curls wrapped around his fingers or the helpless, wanting sound he would make as he was unceremoniously shoved against a wall and kissed savagely during a particularly heated argument, and none of those thoughts would matter. It was all…unattainable.

Even stronger than the wall between them was their circumstances, which Grantaire summarised in his head in the following way:

  1. **They lived almost 4,000 miles away from one another.**  
They only saw each other, on average, 3 times a year. This average had been dramatically increased in recent weeks, but it was still an exceptionally low number, which, he supposed, was normal for such a long distance.  
**1b.** Even if they used the electric plane to negate the environmental impact of their visits, taking semi-regular 12-hour flights to different time zones would be exhausting not only for them, but for the pilots, Bossuet, and Bahorel too.
  2. **He was far too busy to consider romance with anyone.** He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Grantaire was a romantic old soul, and he loved the idea of a great, sweeping romance. Unfortunately, he was also in a committed relationship with politics. Not only did he have his degree to finish, but he also needed to help his Dad with the re-election campaign and start his job as a campaign strategist. Then, after that, he wanted to concentrate on his own law career and his dreams of getting to the Senate. Romance didn’t factor into those plans, so next thought please, Brain, thank you.
  3. **As a Duke, Enjolras has his own priorities.** Grantaire didn’t really know what those princely priorities were, at least, not in detail because Enjolras never wanted to talk about them. Even so, it would be logical to assume that, like Grantaire himself, he had his own goals, wants, and wishes to achieve outside of the royal priorities too. It was highly unlikely that Enjolras was thinking about a long-term romance.
  4. **He still wasn’t sure that Enjolras’ family weren’t actually supervillains.** The more he learned about Enjolras, the more he found his family to be…fishy, and it wasn’t just down to the financial oppression they forced on the French people either. The conversation he’d overheard certainly sounded sinister, and he had this uneasy feeling that there was something deeper going on in the family that Enjolras wasn’t telling him.  
**4a**. The marriage plot was an issue for several reasons. For one, if King Louis already knew Enjolras was gay, he wasn’t happy about it and was trying to stamp it out and hide it. For two, if King Louis _didn’t_ know and was trying to marry him off as Royals are wont to do anyway, he was most likely homophobic (he had that vibe) and the fallout of that wouldn’t help Enjolras’ cause, especially since his father and brother weren’t that keen on him anyway. For third, if he did somehow end up in that loveless marriage to the princess, the scandal of the world finding out about Enjolras’ sexuality afterwards would not reflect well on him or his shitty fucking family. But then, what if he did enter a loveless marriage and the world _never_ found out the truth because Enjolras was forced to live a lie for life? It didn’t bear thinking about.
  5. **Musichetta and, to a lesser extent, his father, would actually, brutally murder him in cold blood if they found out he was fucking a prince.**



Of course, all of that only mattered if whatever was going on was heading somewhere further than a quick tryst to release some of the tension that had been building for the last three years. It also only mattered if Enjolras decided to show up at all. Somehow, the thought that he wouldn’t was more terrifying and troubling than any of the others he’d had.

That was about as organised Grantaire’s brain could get under the dim light of the hotel room’s lamps, listening to the incessant buzz of a bulb on the brink of blowing out.

He could have gotten a better room, but there was something simple and comforting about shitty hotel rooms that reminded him of a time before the White House. It was almost easy to forget about their life before and the home they loved so much – no, it hadn’t been as grand, they didn’t have a team of staff to help them organise their appointments, they didn’t have a balcony, and the fridge was always somehow a little bit broken. But he loved it and he missed its quirks.

The first knock was so quiet that Grantaire couldn’t be sure he heard it. It was just as likely to be someone in the next room dropping the television remote or stubbing their toe on the wall as they tried to find their way in the dark as it was someone knocking on his door.

The second knock, louder and quicker this time, made Grantaire leap from the bed. He gripped the handle and swallowed the fear in his throat before opening the door a crack, spying an oceanic eye and a small spattering of paper-thin freckles underneath it. He opened the door fully.

“Sorry I’m late,” Enjolras said in a half-whisper, taking down the hood of a large purple hoodie, boldly patterned with acid-green foliage and bronze tigers. “I couldn’t get away as easily as I thought.”

“Don’t be sorry. The fact you came at all is incredible enough,” Grantaire said, gawping at Enjolras as if he were an impossible apparition and knocking the door closed, locking it behind him. “Please tell me this is yours,” he added, playfully tugging on the drawstring of the hoodie.

Enjolras laughed, looking down at the garish pattern with a grimace. “It’s Bahorel’s.”

“Is it part of your cunning disguise?” Grantaire asked, pulling on the string so it bounced when he let go.

“It’s part of a terrible _last-minute_ disguise,” Enjolras said. “Even though Combeferre and Bahorel are used to helping me sneak out unnoticed during royal events, it’s much harder to do it when you haven’t planned it beforehand.”

Grantaire grinned gleefully and leaned in to kiss Enjolras’ neck. “You’re such a rebel,” he teased, laying lingering kisses at the spot below his jaw. Enjolras’ skin smelled like bitter coffee and rich sandalwood with something warm and sweetly vanilla lying beneath it all, intoxicating and indulgent.

Tilting back his head, Enjolras slid his hands over Grantaire’s hips. “Oh, the stories I could tell you…”

“Tell me,” Grantaire said, kissing Enjolras’ throat which elicited a little shiver and a pleasant hum from him.

“Another time,” Enjolras promised, gently pushing Grantaire off him so he could tug off the hideous hoodie. He discarded it on the floor and threw himself at Grantaire, kissing him greedily and curling his fingers in his hair and stroking the nape of his neck.

Grantaire felt as if all the oxygen had been siphoned from his body – he was lightheaded and giddy, his chest aching and desperate with anticipation. He stumbled forward, pushing Enjolras up against the door and nipping at his thick lower lip, enjoying the sensation of Enjolras' slender fingers tightening in his hair and his breath hitching in his throat.

In a rush of eager hands and flowing endorphins, Grantaire’s shirt was quickly slipped from his body, leaving Enjolras staring at him with wonder. His fingertips grazed over the flat, dark moles peppered across Grantaire’s chest and shoulders, leaving Grantaire feeling oddly exposed and self-conscious in a more intimate way than being half-naked. The tension evaporated from his body when Enjolras pressed his warm lips to a mole where his collarbone met his shoulder.

They fumbled to the bed with Grantaire removing Enjolras’ shirt in turn. They fell together, Enjolras pressed firmly into the mattress and Grantaire straddling him. He paused, looking down at the Duke with soft eyes and admiring the way his yellow hair fell around his head against the crisp bedsheets like a halo. His skin was flawless and white (from so long being trapped in a palace made from porcelain that he had begun to morph into china himself, Grantaire assumed,) that he seemed to glow like an ancient spectre. The only colour came from the deep blue of his veins and the gentle flush appearing at his throat.

“Is everything alright?” Enjolras asked, his voice breathless and raspy.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said honestly, “Aside from thinking about how beautiful you are, I was wondering…are you doing this because you want to? Or is it a way to get back at your Dad?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows and considered it for a moment, sitting up on his elbows. “Honestly, it’s a little bit of both,” he admitted easily. “But it’s mostly because I find you infuriatingly attractive and I’ve actually enjoyed talking to you over the past few weeks,” he reached out to brush a section of Grantaire’s hair from his eyes. “And the few occasions where we’ve actually hung out have been fun.”

“Even when I was trying to beat you up in a cupboard?” Grantaire teased.

“Especially then,” Enjolras laughed, but he quickly became serious. “Listen, I also want you to know that I’ve...not done this before.” He averted his gaze and chewed his lip, his throat bobbing as he tried to stomach his own uncertainty at being honest.

Though he was surprised Enjolras had said it, Grantaire wasn’t surprised that this was his first sexual venture. Being gay and cooped up in an ivory tower with, at best, a controlling father, probably didn’t give you much opportunity to “get sexy” as he had put it so elegantly in the labyrinth.

“That’s okay,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Enjolras turned his head back to him and laughed. “Well, obviously. I just mean you shouldn’t expect anything specialist.”

In an explosion of giddy laughter, their mouths met once again in a bumble of sweet breaths and eager tongues, letting their hands trail over one another’s feverish skin, alternating between feather-light touches and firm, urgent grips that left tantalising, rosy marks across their skin.

It felt good for Grantaire to shut off his mind for a while and forget about his responsibilities. Instead of worrying about his upcoming finals and his looming career opportunities, he allowed himself to focus solely on Enjolras’ mouth as it touched him - imagining that they were two ordinary people who had met in an ordinary way.

After, in the tangle of limbs and sheets, Grantaire watched the elegant rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest as he stared at the ceiling with a tired smile. Enjolras blinked slowly, his long eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks. He seemed so peaceful that Grantaire was afraid to move or speak and accidentally break whatever spell had been cast over them.

Enjolras did it himself by turning on the bed, still smiling, and touching a finger to one of Grantaire’s moles. “These are very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, smiling back at him. “My ex didn’t like them. She found them gross and off-putting and said I should get them removed.”

Enjolras frowned and gently pressed another one. “I don’t like the sound of her,” he said.

“Neither do I,” Grantaire chuckled. He took a deep breath and stretched out his arm, letting it hang over the bed. “Are we going to need an NDA for this?” he joked.

“We probably do,” Enjolras said, grinning. “But I think we can handle this ourselves.”

“Good,” Grantaire said in mock relief. “The fewer people that know, the better?”

“Most definitely.”

“Lawyers getting involved in your sex life is never a turn on anyway,” Grantaire said from experience. “Having taboo international, clandestine _meetings_ with your rival...that’s everyone’s fantasy, isn’t it?”

Enjolras laughed and gently jabbed Grantaire in the stomach with his index finger. “Are you seriously going to keep saying we’re rivals after this?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire said. “It’s way more fun than saying we’re friends.”

“You’re an idiot,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes and letting out a large sigh. He rubbed at his lashes and sat up, his hair gorgeously ruffled with curls crushed and out of place – something Grantaire took a moment to appreciate. He’d only ever seen him looking perfect. “I have to go home.”

Grantaire sat up too, his smile beginning to fade. His fingers twitched as he considered reaching out to pull him back to him, but he thought better of it and let his hand pick at the sheets instead. “Right…of course.”

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it either,” Enjolras said, slipping out of bed to pick up his clothes. “There are still guests at the palace, and I need to get back before anyone notices that I’ve disappeared.” He quickly dressed and pulled Bahorel’s hoodie over his head.

“How long do those parties last?” Grantaire asked, fishing for his phone in the drawer of the bedside table. “It’s gone one!”

Enjolras pressed his lips together and shrugged. “They last until the King gets bored.” He came back to the bed and kneeled on it, taking Grantaire’s face in his hands. “Tonight has been incredible. Thank you.” He gently kissed Grantaire, long and lingering, before swiftly running out of the hotel room like he’d been burned.

Lying back on the bed with a tired huff, Grantaire touched a hand to his chest with his heart all aflutter.

* * *

The music was so loud in Grantaire’s headphones that Cosette looked like a mime as she held up the focus pads, her mouth made exaggerated movements but nothing came out. He concentrated all his energy on the heavy bass in his ears and the feeling of his gloved fists smacking firmly into the pads, Cosette’s strong arms barely buckling under the force.

He pulled back for a final punch, but his hand continued to fly as Cosette dove to the right. The momentum carried him forward and made him stumble into a hanging punch bag.

“What the fuck was that for?!” Grantaire cried breathlessly, knocking his earphones out with his cumbersomely gloved hands.

“You weren’t listening to me!” Cosette said, taking off the focus pads. “What’s going on with you? You’ve been acting super weird for the past two weeks.”

Grantaire furrowed his brows and pulled off the boxing gloves, handing them to Cosette and swapping them for the target pads. “No, I haven’t.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, checking the fit of the gloves. “You’re acting like a moody fucking teenager all over again.” Satisfied, she began punching the pads, one after the other in quick succession, light on her toes as Grantaire moved her targets. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he insisted. “I’m fine. Never been better.”

Cosette shook her head and punched the pads harder. “You can bullshit Dad, but not me,” she said. “Don’t make me worry about you.”

Grantaire clenched his jaw. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “What were you saying before you decided to let me knock myself out?”

She rolled her eyes and kept sparring. Grantaire thought she was pretending to punch him in the gut judging by the look of concentration on her face. “Where do you wanna go for our weekend break after you graduate? We should probably book somewhere soon,” she said, quickly running out of breath. “Miami could be fun. I quite like the idea of chilling on a beach for three days.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Grantaire said absently, his attention caught by the television on the other side of the gym. A correspondent with too-white teeth was interviewing Thénardier for their Election Candidate special. Although he couldn’t hear what he was saying, Grantaire couldn’t imagine that much of it was genuine or well-thought-out, not when you stopped to read between the lines or think about what he was saying for more than a second.

To add fuel to the fire, a banner of rolling news stories appeared at the bottom of the screen. Like a bee to lavender, his eyes were attracted to the words before he was acknowledging what they meant:

ANTI-MONARCHIST PROTESTORS ARRESTED IN PARIS.

Cosette had managed to remove a hand from its glove and was clicking her fingers beside his ears. “Hello? Earth to Grantaire?”

He reeled back with a gormless look. “Hmm?”

“Who are you inviting?”

Grantaire blinked, his mind unable to wade through the mud to work out what she was on about. “Inviting to what?”

Cosette groaned and used her gloved hand to punch the hanging punchbag. “ _To the weekend away_! I’m thinking I’ll only invite Marius,” she said, not seeing Grantaire turn his head back to the TV. “It’ll be good to have some quiet time together before a manic summer and autumn, you know?”

“Mmhm,” Grantaire hummed.

“So, who are you going to bring?” Cosette prompted once again, giving up on boxing and taking off her other glove.

Grantaire shrugged and gave her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll probably just ask Éponine, I guess. I’m sure she could do with the break too.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Cosette said, picking up her water bottle from the floor. “Just promise me there won’t be any Senate talk. It’s supposed to a _break._ ” She took a swig from the bottle and followed his gaze up to the TV, spotting Thénardier as he laughed at something he’d said. Shaking her head, she sucked on her teeth. “Is he what you’re worried about? Because you know Dad will wipe for the floor with him.”

Grantaire cleared his throat and grabbed his bottle too, shaking his head of any other thoughts. “You think? He’s not a good politician but he really knows how to sell himself to people…”

“He’s selling a _version_ of himself,” Cosette agreed, leading Grantaire to the stretching and mobility section of the gym. “It’s not authentic and people will see through that.”

“Aren’t we all doing that though?” Grantaire asked, dropping heavily onto a yoga mat. “We’re always selling a version of ourselves to someone.”

Cosette groaned and led them into a series of cat-cow flexes. “See? I told you you’re acting like a teenager. Look at you pretending to be all fake deep and shit.”

“I’m not being fake deep,” he argued. “I’m being truthful. We’re always trying to sell parts of ourselves that other people will like.”

She ignored him. “The thing is, Dad always comes across as really genuine. To be honest, the only difference I see between Dad and the President is the lexical choices they make.”

“That’s the point,” Grantaire said, his voice muffled as he dipped down into child’s pose. “We see him more as Dad because that’s the part of him he sells to us, even more than the President, so all we can really see is Dad and it’s harder for us to see past that. I can guarantee you that Jean, as a whole person, is a completely different person we’ll never know. Thénardier is doing a similar thing and Dad’s just as fake as Thénardier. Granted, he’s probably worse than Dad, but Dad’s still selling a fake version of himself in some way.”

Lifting himself carefully into a downward-facing dog, Grantaire yawned and let his head flop forward, glad that he couldn’t see the TV. Staring at it was like watching all his anxieties play out on a cinema screen to millions.

On top of everything else he had to think about, Enjolras hadn’t responded to any of his texts or calls for the past week, and whilst that wouldn’t usually bother him, this time it felt odd and devastating in a way he couldn’t put into words. Instead, boxing, yoga, chucking paint at canvases, and chain-smoking would have to amalgamate into a post-modernist piece of performance art that explained how he felt.

A sharp pain flooded his side as Cosette pushed him over with both of her dainty hands, dusting them together afterwards as if her work here were done.

“I think I’m going to push you over every time you talk like an A-grade dick,” she said, and then sucked on the spout of her water bottle. “I mean, it seems to be working so far.”

“Working at what?!” Grantaire grunted and rolled over on the mat, telling himself he was in corpse pose rather than giving up for the day.

Cosette sat cross-legged beside him, grinning. “Getting you to shut the fuck up and making me feel better.”

“What do you need to feel better about?”

“You’re whining like a fucking child and you’re unbearable when you go into that spiral.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to argue but quickly closed it again, knowing she’d take the retort as proof she was right, and she was just as insufferable as he was when she thought she was right.

It felt odd, in a way, to be keeping so many thoughts and emotions locked up in his head – usually, Cosette was the first person he told about everything. He had told her about his first kiss with a girl under the bleachers when they were skipping class, he told her about his first awkward kiss with a boy at a sleepover, and she’d helped him plan his first-ever date. He’d gone to her first about every heartbreak, and she was the first person he told when he fell in love for the first time – even before he had told the person he’d fallen for.

But this was different. What was there for him to say this time? Everything was so fragile and uncertain – he still couldn’t fathom it all himself. How could he possibly quantify everything he felt? How could he explain the night he’d shared with Enjolras when he was just as confused as he was when he’d first kissed him?

Even if he could find the words to tell her how kissing Enjolras made time stand still and his heart feel like it had never been broken, he wouldn’t be able to stand her probing questions and constant pestering when he revealed that, after their night together, Enjolras had now disappeared.

He finally decided that if he was going to talk to anyone about it, it would be Bossuet. After all, he was there that night and he trusted him. Plus, considering he’d signed his own NDA, he wouldn’t be able to tell another soul and he’d be less likely to pry.

“Let’s go home,” Grantaire said, standing up and holding out his hands to pull Cosette from the floor. “I’ll make you a hot chocolate to say sorry for being a bastard.”

* * *

Bossuet eyed Grantaire suspiciously as he handed him a mug of hot chocolate and sat opposite him on the sofa, smiling uncomfortably. He sipped on the drink as he watched his troublesome charge make himself comfortable by shuffling about with the scatter cushions.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me to get involved in something illegal?” Bossuet asked, placing the mug carefully on a coaster on the coffee table. He still managed to spill some of it and mopped up the mess with tissue from the pocket pack he always kept on him.

Grantaire scoffed, pretending to be greatly offended. “I’d never ask you to do something like that again,” he said, tapping his fingers against the mug. “I wanted to talk to you about something that happened the other week at Versailles…”

“Ahh,” he said, smiling smugly as he leaned back on the sofa. “Is this about your late-night visit from the Duke?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I like the way you look like you know more about it than I anticipated,” Grantaire said, laughing nervously.

“That’s my job,” Bossuet said simply. “I’m supposed to know where you are and who you’re with. Plus, Bahorel warned me they were both coming over.”

Grantaire pouted and looked up at him sharply, a slightly panicked note in the back of his throat as he spoke. “Bahorel was there?”

“Obviously,” Bossuet said, cocking an eyebrow and smirking. “He has to protect Enjolras as much as I have to protect you, remember? He sat with me in the room next door.”

It made perfect sense, but Grantaire still didn’t expect it. He didn’t know why he didn’t assume it to begin with.

“Well, I guess that makes it a little easier to talk about…” Grantaire looked down at his drink. “I can’t remember the last time I had so many feelings about one person. I feel like I’ve gone through every emotion in the world when it comes to him. Ecstatic, devastated, angry, jealous, worry, bliss, frustration, confusion…”

Bossuet sighed and crossed his legs as an old schoolmaster might. “This is a long-winded way of saying you've finally realised you’ve actially fancied him for the last three years.”

Grantaire choked on his hot chocolate. “I’ve not liked him for _that_ long!”

“Oh, you’re still in denial about that,” he said. “Okay, fine.”

“It doesn’t matter how long I’ve fancied him for anyway,” Grantaire said, waving away the suggestion. “What matters is that I definitely like him more than I should, which, if anyone found out, could put us in an internationally unstable position politically as well as personally, plus I’m really fucked off that he’s ghosting me.”

“Sometimes, the heart, or the dick, or whatever you’re telling yourself is doing your thinking for you, doesn’t care if your feelings disrupt life politically. Everyone’s fallen for someone they shouldn’t at some point,” Bossuet shrugged. “Musichetta and I probably shouldn’t have fallen for our doctor and yet…”

“That must be nice though,” Grantaire said, leaning his head against the sofa, “if the person you’re falling for has already seen you at your sickest or at your most embarrassing.”

Bossuet shrugged. “It takes some pressure off, but it brings its own issues. Don’t get it twisted or try and change the subject though - falling for your doctor and falling for a prince who’s second in line for the throne are two vastly different ends of the ‘ _oh, fuck_ ’ spectrum.”

Leaning his head further back and whining petulantly, Grantaire frowned. “A prince who’s second in line for the throne is ghosting me after _he_ came on to _me_ ,” he said bitterly.

“I’m sure he’s got his reasons,” Bossuet said, pretending he wasn't amused by the scenario. “I’m also sure you’ve got bigger priorities than that at the moment,” he added pointedly.

“I know I have,” Grantaire sighed. “But, like a fucking teenager, I can’t concentrate because he’s all I can think about. I’ll make myself a cup of coffee but all I can smell is his aftershave. I’ll try to study but then all I can think about are the laws of his country. Sometimes, even the fucking sun will glint in a way that reminds me of his hair and I get distracted! What the fuck is wrong with me, Boss?”

“Nothing,” he assured him. “You've just got a massive crush on the guy. Why don’t you go smoke, take a shower, calm down, and at least _try_ to study? I know how upset you’ll get if you fail, and I really don’t want to have to follow you on your self-destructive night out when you get your results.”

Grantaire laughed and nodded. “That’s fair enough. I don’t wish that on you…or me, actually,” he got up from the sofa, taking his mug with him. “Thanks for listening.”

He was halfway through his second cigarette on the Truman Balcony, his empty hot chocolate mug balancing precariously on the handrail when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

* * *

**The Puke of Normandy**

Hi, you. Sorry I’ve not been around lately – things have been hectic with the protestors. I hope you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you.


	10. Petit Trianon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Announcement: From this week, I will now be releasing a new chapter twice a week! I shall be posting on Mondays as per usual and then again on Thursday. I hope you'll come back later in the week - thanks for reading everyone!

March had truly arrived in Washington D.C and it had appeared in a blaze of glorious, chilly sunshine that glowed in yellow-gold and honeyed peach tones. The lawns were showing the first signs of a pleasant spring – flowers were beginning to bloom and the tulips around the fountain looked magnificent under the light. If you looked at them just right, the delicate, fleshy petals looked as if they had been crafted from fragile spun sugar. Even the water of the fountain itself looked refreshingly crystallised and cold. On their last night at the White House, whenever that might be, Grantaire promised himself that he’d dive straight into that fountain and float there, gazing at the stars.

He turned his attention from the window to look at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen instead. There were only two more paragraphs of his thesis left to write and he was so close to finishing it, he could taste the sweet release of freedom. Of course, he would be reminded by his father and Cosette that he would still need to go through and edit it and re-write sections…but that could wait a few more weeks. He found that editing with fresh eyes was a far more effective way of working and that it made a wonderful reason to procrastinate.

**Attitudes of International Law Towards the Concept of Self-Determination: How Can a Fair Balance Between the Interests of Minorities and the Interests of Other People be Set?**

Beside his laptop was a stack of open books that he was alternating between, checking the opinions and thoughts of academics that had come before him, though at this point, he was an expert at knowing who said what and didn’t need a reminder. If anything, the books were only there so he could reference page numbers.

Every book had been defaced with yellow highlights and rushed annotations in a mix of black biro, purple sparkly gel pen, and his 5B sketching pencil that was smudged all over the pages and only readable if you looked closely and squinted.

“Have you finished it yet?” asked a lilting voice from his phone on loudspeaker. It was sitting on his desk tidy, but the tidy seemed pointless with the number of pens, pencils, and stationery thrown around the tabletop.

“Almost,” Grantaire said, typing his closing argument. “What did you do yours on?”

“How successful the ideals of the EU have been in providing balance in international relations,” Enjolras answered. “It’s not as dry of a subject as it sounds.”

“I can imagine,” Grantaire said, his typing beginning to slow. “Speaking of international relations…what’s going on with the protestors? Looks like things are getting tense over there.”

There was a pause and Grantaire imagined Enjolras running his hands through his hair and leaning against the lid of the piano in his bedroom.

“I mean…it’s not great. The King is getting a little too paranoid about it for my liking and he’s stepping up security around the palace.”

“But they haven’t gotten anywhere near the palace, right?” Grantaire said, frowning.

“No and that’s why it’s so ridiculous,” Enjolras said, his voice rising in intonation as he began to seethe. “But of course, the _great_ King Louis doesn’t want to hear that people can exercise their right to free speech how they like, even when he doesn’t like what they’re saying. He doesn’t want to hear people criticise him, especially when those criticisms are valid. He doesn’t want to hear that people have had enough of his reign, and of the royal regime altogether.” Enjolras paused, presumably to bang his head against the wall judging by the thumping sound that came next. “He’s talking about having anyone seen protesting arrested.”

Grantaire could’ve shouted right then and there. Instead, he took a deep breath and stared intently at the phone, his hands hovering over the keyboard. “Surely he can’t do that,” he said. “That’s insane for so many reasons…I’d say it was unlawful, but I have a feeling he doesn’t give a shit about that.”

“He really doesn’t,” Enjolras agreed. “I feel like we’re one degree away from publishing propaganda.”

“That’s kind of terrifying,” Grantaire said. “Will you keep me updated? The news here isn’t focusing much on European upheaval.”

Enjolras exhaled through his nose in mock laughter. “Yeah, I will. Hey,” he said, smoothly changing the subject. “How come you’re finishing your degree late?”

“I took a gap year to help Dad out with his Presidential campaign,” he said, the hint of a smile in his voice. “And I went on holiday with some friends to Brazil. It was a good year.”

“I’ll bet,” Enjolras said. “I’m kind of jealous, you know? I wish I could’ve taken a gap year and gone on a holiday like a normal person.”

“You _are_ a normal person,” Grantaire told him, perhaps a little more earnestly than he meant to. “You’re a normal person who happens to live in extraordinary circumstances.” He paused and licked at his bottom lip, smiling to himself. “But it truly is a shame you didn’t get a gap year. What I wouldn’t give to see pictures of you on the beach in booty shorts or tiny swim trunks…”

Enjolras burst out laughing, a tiny snort escaping from his throat and nose. “You’ve seen the whole package already. Why do you want to see me in swim trunks?”

“Because you’re really fucking hot,” Grantaire said, rolling his shoulders and beginning to type again. “And as much as I enjoyed seeing you naked, sometimes the tease of little shorts is just as enticing as your bare ass.”

“That’s so romantic, I don’t know what to say,” Enjolras said, sniffling and faking a cry.

“Shut up,” Grantaire said, grinning broadly.

“Do you know what I think is sexy? The way your smile seems to fall over on your face.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to burst out laughing then. “That’s not a thing!”

“It is!” Enjolras insisted. “There’s something about a crooked smile that’s so much more attractive than a perfect one. You also have sexy, strong shoulders and arms. They’re unbelievably hot and I kind of wish you had them wrapped around me right now.”

Grantaire suddenly felt those arms ache with the weight of the 4,000-mile distance between them. “Yeah, well, that’s what all the yoga and boxing is for. Making me attractive to foreign princes.”

“Princes?” Enjolras said with a sharp gasp. “As in the plural of prince? I’m not sure I like the implication that there are others.”

“What can I say? I’m a high-in-demand bachelor too,” Grantaire said, beginning to type his final thesis paragraph. “You’re not the only one people are clamouring for…I have plenty of princes lining up for a piece of me.”

“I’m definitely the best of them though, right?”

Grantaire breathed in slowly, letting the cold air rattle around his teeth. “I don’t think I should say. I don’t want you getting more big-headed than you are, just on the off chance I start hating you again.”

“That sounds good enough to me, so I’ll take it,” Enjolras said.

“Yeah you will,” Grantaire said in a low voice, stretching out his syllables.

“Once again, you’re an idiot.”

Grantaire abruptly let out a loud _whoop_ and slammed all his textbooks shut with enthusiastic energy, one of them falling off the pile and hitting the floor. “Yes! Freedom!” he screamed out. “For a few weeks,” he added quietly.

“Congratulations!” Enjolras laughed through the phone. “I bet it’s your magnum opus.”

“I hope so,” Grantaire said, hitting ‘save’ on his work before he accidentally made a monumental mistake. “It’s a subject I’m really passionate about…I just hope it doesn’t come across as too…I don’t know…ranty?”

“I believe in you,” Enjolras said easily. “I’m sure it’s a great piece of work and your passion will work in your favour.” There was a quick pause followed by a muffled French conversation. “I have to go,” he said regretfully. “Go and celebrate with your family and I’ll speak to you later.”

“Alright,” Grantaire answered. He considered making a quip about Enjolras disappearing on him again, but he changed his mind at the last moment. “Don’t miss me too much.”

* * *

**The Controversial King: The Rise of King Louis XXVI**

_By Anonymous._

_Published 14 th March 2020, 6:00 am._

On August 17th, 1992, Louis XXVI ascended to the throne to become King of France. The oldest child of King Louis XXV and Queen Jeanne, the current King is known for his divisive lead that has, so far, been a world away from his father’s unified rule.

Competing with the shadow of his late father’s influence on the nation’s spirit during the Second World War, King Louis began his reign as a king of Style and Excess – diametrically opposing his father’s austere, rationed, and ‘dedicated’ practicality.

His early reign is often attributed with a modern renaissance in art, architecture, and literature. As he piled money into creative passions and lavish parties, fashions and trends among the people of France shifted. However, political, and social opinions also shifted, giving further voice to a selection of anti-monarchist activists who had been critical of King Louis XXV’s response to the Second World War and were horrified by Louis XXVI’s ‘reckless’ spending.

After meeting her as Dauphin and, after three years of courting, King Louis married Marguerite Marie Beaumont, a stewardess, in a lavish ceremony in 1993. Queen Marguerite, the daughter of a noble who was knighted by the previous king, seemed to be the perfect match for the wild ruler; she was simpler in tastes and according to those that knew her, she brought a pragmatic charm to the palace.

It seemed to be a match made in heaven, and much of the public believed they were about to be heard by the King thanks to the influence of his civilian wife. They were right, at least, for a little while.

After the birth of their first son and heir, Louis-Joseph Laurent, in 1994, the King began weeks of celebrations with street parties becoming a popular fixture on our roads. Behind the scenes, however, the anti-monarchists and the poorer of society, who felt forgotten in the King’s time of joy, continued to resent the excess.

By the time their second son, Aurélien Antoine Enjolras, was born in 1996, the King’s spending had caught up with him and the Royals were running into debt. By then, Queen Marguerite had retreated from royal duties to spend time with her young children and was rarely seen in public. Still, she was vocal about her charity work and helped in her community where possible.

Meanwhile, King Louis, to keep France afloat, raised taxes, cut infrastructure funding, reduced the rate of pay, and borrowed money from neighbouring countries, most notably, Belgium. The lack of funding for business and industries had a knock-on effect on customers, as retailers and supermarkets raised their rates and costs - a huge concern for many when wages were seeing little improvement. As a result, poverty began to soar.

For over twenty years, the Royal Family were hidden behind the grandeur of Versailles, only coming out to play when hosting Babylonian parties – mostly for their own personal events – drawing yet more criticism for the public who claimed they felt ‘abandoned’ by the monarchy.

Things changed once again when, in 2014, the quiet Queen Marguerite unexpectedly passed away at the tender age of 46. Her cause of death has yet to be publicly revealed.

In keeping with his style of reign, the funeral organised by the King was a typically elaborate affair. After the spectacle, the weight of the Queen’s death plunged the King and his children deep into mourning, and Louis XXVI unleashed his ruthless side. The Queen’s staff were fired, her charitable endeavours cancelled, and according to sources close to the family, her name was struck from their lips. The French people, feeling the loss of their “Queen of the People” were again left to fend for themselves as the King tightened his laws and the country’s finances yet again.

In the interest of balance, it’s important to note that monarchists claim that the King’s reign has been one beset by tragedy and that he has been haunted by the shadow of a large legacy to sustain. They also argue that the money spent on royal events are paid back by luring tourists to the country. It’s also believed that countries with a monarchy have stronger defences when it comes to the military as the power of the throne rests in the lands and people being governed.

Even so, it’s evident that the people of France are becoming increasingly restless, showing their disapproval and outrage with protests and demonstrations around the country. After suffering under twenty years of austerity, homelessness and ill-health have only intensified, putting increasing pressure on the infrastructure that has been consistently de-funded.

What will King Louis XXVI’s legacy be? Why has the Queen been erased from the palace? And how can he prove to his people that the monarchy is still relevant today?

* * *

The article had been shared thousands of times. Cosette had forwarded it to Grantaire whilst they were having dinner with Valjean, and he pretended not to read it as they talked about their day over glasses of white wine and plates of chicken parmesan.

“I’m going back to Versailles for the day at the end of the weekend,” Grantaire announced, poking at his chicken with a fork and locking his phone, placing it face down on the table. He could feel Cosette staring at the top of his head.

“Again?” Valjean said carefully, setting down his cutlery so it made as little noise as possible. “I’m surprised you’re still taking this friendship thing so seriously.”

“It’s not that,” Grantaire said, lifting his head with a smile. “Actually, Courfeyrac has asked if I’d like to attend a charity lunch he’s holding.”

Cosette looked at him suspiciously over her wine glass, her dimples magnified by the refraction. “What’s the charity?”

“Secours Populaire Français,” he said, straightening his posture. It wasn’t a lie, but he couldn’t help feeling as if Cosette was accusing him of being dishonest. “They’re a non-profit who focus on providing victims of discrimination with emergency shelter, food, clothing, health care, and more,” he continued. “They also work with other organisations to help fight against anti-social behaviour and child abuse…so, you know…”

Valjean nodded and smiled kindly. “Well, it sounds like a worthy cause and if you’re passionate about it, and you want to help, you should. You know you have my support and I’ll gladly supplement some of the cost of the ticket. Or I can make my own donation.”

Grantaire’s body felt a lot lighter with his father’s approval. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Will Enjolras be there?” Cosette asked. “If so, you can thank him for our engagement present,” she added sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes in the way she did whenever she wanted you to know she was on to you.

Grantaire cleared his throat and sipped on his wine. “Courfeyrac is his best friend so, yes, he will be there. I’d be more than happy to thank him for you,” he said slowly, being careful not to give her an inch of what she wanted.

“What about the press? Will they be there?” she asked, cutting into her chicken.

“No,” Grantaire admitted. “It’s a private charity event with a select invitation list. However, social media posts are encouraged.”

Cosette raised her eyebrows. “Well, I look forward to seeing yours. I’m sure they’ll be very enlightening.”

Looking between them with a quiet sigh, Valjean decided he didn’t want to know or get involved with, whatever his kids were passively arguing about. Instead, he twirled his fork in his portion of jersey salad and said, “plain salads are an issue that really needs _addressing._ ”

* * *

The SPF charity lunch was being held in the Petit Trianon at Versailles – a smaller palace within the gardens of the main palace. It was a simpler building in a classic cube layout with varying facades to stop it from looking too dull when compared to the rest of the grounds. So far away was it from the main palace, it was its own private haven, toeing the line perfectly between the grandeur expected of events where royalty and nobility gathered, and the subdued, non-flashy nature of straightforward charity events organised by people who actually cared.

A little further along the Estate of Trianon was a man-made, sparkling lake surrounded by lush greenery and tiny house-like buildings that looked as if they had been plucked from a fairytale village. Grantaire almost forgot this was an extension of a garden and not a quaint country-side town, but when he did remember, he felt uneasy.

He was soon met there by Courfeyrac and Combeferre, which didn’t give him long to dwell on the excess of the space. Both men were in well-fitted semi-casual suits and smiling enthusiastically, especially Courfeyrac who was running up the path.

“You’re early!” he said, companionably throwing his arm around Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you came.”

“This was the time you told me to come,” he said with a smirk, letting Bossuet carry his weekend bag into the Petit Trianon as they followed Combeferre’s lead. “Whilst I’m grateful for the invite, I’m surprised you thought of me for this.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Courfeyrac asked. “I’ve done my research on you and you’re someone who’s worth having at events like this. And Enjolras has told me plenty about you since the last time we met, too, of course.”

“All good, I hope,” he said, choking out a laugh as his heart jumped into his mouth.

Courfeyrac grinned, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. It was amazing to Grantaire that his teeth and slim frame were so well-maintained for someone who spent their whole life working with, and eating, chocolate.

“I mean, not to begin with,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “But he’s very positive about you now.”

Frustratingly, Grantaire could feel a warmth flush across his face and belly and he had to look away. “Oh…that’s nice. He’s alright too, I guess.”

They walked up the immaculate stone steps and into the palace, only to be met by another set of impressive stairs. The Honour Staircase, much like the rest of the building, was inspired by neo-Greek architecture – something refreshingly different from the Rococo décor Grantaire felt bombarded with every time he walked into a room.

Walking up the stairs and holding on to the bannister with reverence, Grantaire could hear laughter from the antechamber. There was the unmistakable, charming snort of Enjolras and the deep chortle of Bahorel, but there was another giggle that seemed somewhat familiar but couldn’t quite attribute to anyone.

“Look what the Courfey-cat dragged in!” Courfeyrac sang, pulling Grantaire into the antechamber by the arm.

Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan, and Enjolras all glanced at the door, still laughing. Enjolras, wearing a navy suit and tie, was sporting a post-it note on his forehead that said ‘Colette’ as he clocked eyes with Grantaire. He quickly stood up, tripping over his own foot, and ripped the post-it from his head, hiding it behind his back as he regained his balance.

“Hi!” he said, ignoring the sniggers coming from the others. “We were just…playing a game…”

Grantaire put a hand in his trouser pocket, smiling broadly at Enjolras’ reddening cheeks. “I can see that.”

“Would you like to play Post-It Detective?” Courfeyrac asked, sitting down beside Jehan. “We can play in teams of two.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said easily. “Are there only French celebrities in that bowl? Because I can’t say I’m going to be particularly good at it if so.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Combeferre said, coming into the chamber with Bossuet after dropping off their bags elsewhere. “It’s the taking part that counts…but, in the interest of giving you and Bossuet a fair advantage, it’s only right that you each get to play on teams with one of us.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Bossuet said, completely unaware of what was happening but eager to get involved anyway.

“That’s settled then,” Combeferre said, pushing up his glasses with a smirk. “I’ll play with Bossuet and Grantaire can play with Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac and Jehan began giggling childishly at Enjolras and Grantaire’s gormless expressions, which only made Bahorel and Feuilly start laughing too.

Realising he was still stood, Enjolras slowly sat back in his seat, pressing himself as close to the arm of the sofa as he could so Grantaire could do the same on the other side. In his brain, Grantaire could hear the distant voice of one of his Catholic school teachers telling him to “leave room for Jesus.”

They played for around 45 minutes, with Bahorel and Feuilly winning and Enjolras being horrified that Grantaire didn’t know Charles Baudelaire was, leaving the others crying with laughter as Enjolras tried to explain _The Flowers of Evil_ to him.

Soon, other guests began to arrive – friends of the de Courfeyrac’s, minor nobles, and even a select few celebrities that Grantaire had never heard of, but to relax him, Jehan reliably informed him that they weren’t particularly big names – they were social media stars and background actors.

On the other side of the antechamber was a charming dining room with a long table taking up most of the space. The matching mahogany chairs looked surprisingly comfortable and were delicately designed to complement the attractive wainscoting that had been decorated with elegantly carved fruits and vegetables.

On each wall was a different painting, two of which were in the neoclassic style that Grantaire found breath-taking. The style always made him think of his favourite sculpture: Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss and he wished he could spend the day looking at and talking about art with Enjolras and his friends.

The most notable painting in the room was one of Marie Antoinette holding a rose. Once again, Grantaire couldn’t help but notice the similarities between Enjolras and his ancestor. This time he was focused on the bridge of their noses and the gentle space between their eyebrows.

“Thanks for coming, everyone,” Courfeyrac said, standing whilst the guests seated themselves, some of them already snapping pictures on their phones. “I’d first like to start by thanking the Duke of Normandy for letting me host this little soiree here at Versailles. Secondly,” he added before anyone could clap, “you’ve all been invited for one of two simple reasons. You’re either deeply passionate about the cause SPF stands for or you’ve directly benefited from the work they do. They’re a charity that the Duke and I have worked closely with many times before and most of you won’t be a stranger to these events. But if you are a stranger, or you’d like a refresher, you will find a leaflet under your placemat.”

Several guests proceeded to tug the sheet from under their mats with a quiet rustle.

“Feel free to come to me or our gracious host for more information on how you can get involved with the events we plan, or you can talk to Mathieu Feuilly from the charity, who will be giving a short speech later this afternoon, to find out what you can do to help closer to home.”

Grantaire furrowed his brow and leaned towards Enjolras, talking in a whisper. “I thought Feuilly worked for Courfeyrac?”

“He works part-time _with_ Courfeyrac but working with SPF is what he does day to day,” Enjolras explained, his whispers full of sibilance.

“Oh, okay,” he answered back. “You look fucking gorgeous, by the way. It’s like you wore your tightest dress shirt just to cause me pain.”

Enjolras softly cleared his throat and tried to keep his smile suppressed. “We’re at a fundraiser, Grantaire, please show some respect,” he murmured, fiddling with his napkin. Before Grantaire could reel back completely, he leaned closer to him again and added, “although, you look magnificent too. This is a better look for you than breeches and tights.”

They couldn’t be sure who moved first, but their knees were soon touching under the table, both smiling without looking at one another.

The lunch was more entertaining and relaxed than Grantaire had anticipated. Anything stuffy about the event was only there for show: the suits, the table centrepieces (designed and arranged with flowers Jehan had picked from the gardens), the staff who served the courses borrowed from the main palace, and even the choice of cutlery and crockery was picked for its aesthetics, purely for those encouraged Instagram and social media posts.

Laughter was prevalent as guests swapped stories and jokes. Even the speeches from charity workers, and those who had benefited, were full of good humour. Similarly, passion poured out of Feuilly like his body physically couldn’t hold it – he spoke about his experiences with the perfect balance of emotion and hope, peppering it with light jokes that always came at just the right moment. Everyone stared at him with glistening eyes and eager ears, including Enjolras who subtly wiped his eye with a cotton napkin.

“Back to mine to celebrate?” Courfeyrac asked when the other guests had left, looking over their monthly sign-up sheet. “SPF just gained another fourteen monthly donors.”

“That’s great!” Feuilly said, snatching the sheet from his hand and scanning it himself, “Oh, I saw that lady in some TV show a little while ago.”

“She’s tipped to become a huge star by the end of next year,” Bahorel said, reading over Feuilly’s shoulder, one of his broad hands gently touching the small of his back. “She’s got a supporting role in a movie that’s out soon.”

Combeferre nodded sagely, undoing his collar button, and breathing like it was for the first time. “It looks like a good film actually. We should all go and see it.”

“Is that the one where she plays the ghost in the lake?” Jehan asked, handing out flowers from his arrangements to each of them, giving Courfeyrac his with a kiss to his nose. “If so, absolutely. More movies should have medieval ghosts in them.”

“It’s settled then,” Courfeyrac said, grinning as he tucked the purple iris behind his ear. “We’ll go back to mine now and then go to the cinema in about five weeks. That means you too, Grantaire and Bossuet. You’re invited too.”

Bossuet grinned, pushing a peony into his buttonhole. “To yours or the cinema?”

“Both!”

“Would you like to come to Courfeyrac’s too?” Enjolras asked Grantaire, standing beside him so their hips met. “I know you’re supposed to be flying back but…”

Grantaire smiled, looking ahead at the wall opposite him as he twirled a stem of bluebells between his fingers. “If I’ve been invited, I can hardly refuse,” he said, then looked at him, grinning as the others chatted about how well the afternoon had gone. “I’ve been dying to kiss you since the moment I saw you today,” he said softly.

As quick as lightning, Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and pulled him through a set of doors leading off the Dining Room and into the Reception Room, but not without leaving a trail of blue-purple petals behind them. Like a black hole pulling everything towards it, their lips met fiercely with Grantaire pushing Enjolras up against the closed door, crushing the red anemone he’d slipped under his hair ribbon. Enjolras gasped into Grantaire’s mouth and arched his back

“You like that?” Grantaire asked, kissing Enjolras’ jaw.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, laughing, “but you also pushed me into the door handle.”

Grantaire took a quick step back, a blush creeping over his cheeks. “Sorry, I got excited,” he said awkwardly.

“Don’t be sorry,” Enjolras told him, lifting a hand to Grantaire’s face. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I,” Grantaire said, kissing him sweetly and wrapping his arms around his waist. “As much as I want to hang out with your friends tonight, I also kind of want you all to myself.”

Enjolras smiled slyly. “Flesh is willing, but the Soul requires Sisyphean patience for its song.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it sounds sexy,” Grantaire said, kissing him again.

“It’s a quote from Baudelaire,” Enjolras informed him matter-of-factly when Grantaire gave him the chance. “It means you’ll have your time with me after we get changed and get a little drunk somewhere no one knows us.”

“Oh, that sounds promising,” he grinned, nuzzling his nose against Enjolras’ jaw.

The moment didn’t last long as they were soon shepherded out of the Reception Room by Bahorel and Bossuet, who were increasingly acting like the tired parents of mischievous school children.

They left the Trianon Estate with jovial laughter and springs in their steps, but what was said at the palace gates noticeably soured the mood.

A small crowd had gathered there, shouting out in French as they walked. Bahorel and Bossuet blocked the protestors from the group’s path, asking them to stand back. Meanwhile, their friends immediately jostled together to form a barrier between Grantaire and Enjolras.

“This Windsors did it to Princess Diana,” called out a leader in the crowd, speaking into a megaphone, “and so the de France’s did it to Queen Marguerite.”


	11. Marguerite

Courfeyrac’s modest house was around five miles outside of Paris in a little commune called Saint-Denis. It was an unassuming piece of property with yellowing exterior walls and a Juliet balcony littered with plants – some dead and shedding their leaves, others very much alive and snaking down the iron bars, tickling the masonry.

Inside, the walls were bright, and the furniture was cosy – a delightful mash-up of colours and style designs from mid-century modern and Scandinavian to a blend of bohemian and gothic aesthetics.

As everyone bundled through the sage green front door, Enjolras was shoved on to the grey leather sofa and its pile of crocheted cushions. A glass of cognac was thrust into his hand from nowhere.

“Will you all stop fussing?” he said brusquely. He tried to pass the cognac back to the unseen hand that gave it to him but gulped it down when no one claimed it. “We all knew something like this might happen. I’m _fine_.”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre asked, perching on the arm of the sofa. “I can get the article removed if you think that would help.”

Enjolras shook his head. “No. How would that look? They’ll think the King ordered it to be removed.”

“That’ll probably happen anyway,” Courfeyrac called out from his cherry-red kitchen, pouring drinks into a variety of glasses and mugs. “Give it enough time and he’ll be censoring it all.”

“The article?” Grantaire asked, sitting on the second-hand cuddle chair. “Do you mean the one about the King’s controversial reign, or whatever it was called?”

“That’s the one,” Jehan said, helping Courfeyrac hand out the drinks as he emerged from the kitchen, balancing a tray on one palm.

Grantaire shared a brief, bewildered look with Bossuet before turning his attention to Enjolras and his friends. “It’s a good job it was published anonymously,” he said, taking a drink with a careful hand. “I can’t imagine the King was happy when he read it.”

“He certainly wasn’t,” Enjolras agreed. “You could practically hear him shouting from the other side of the palace.” Jehan, Combeferre, and Bahorel all nodded solemnly. “He suspects a leak in the palace, so I recommend that everyone be extra vigilant when around the palace. He originally thought it was written by one of Maman’s old staff members, but I told him that if that were true, and they wanted to destroy his reputation, they would’ve said how she died explicitly instead of repeating what the public knew already.”

“Did he buy it?” Feuilly asked, flicking through Courfeyrac’s vinyl collection. Grantaire found himself trying to sneak a peek over Feuilly's shoulder as he did.

“Partially,” Enjolras said. “As I said, we just need to be careful.”

“You’re talking like you’re spies,” Bossuet said, laughing as he downed his cognac too quickly. He suppressed a burning cough.

Everyone except the visiting Americans looked between themselves, inclining their chins, shrugging their shoulders, and pursing their lips. Then they started nodding, their eyes glistening and certain. Together they had struck a silent deal - Enjolras casting the final unheard vote.

“The King isn’t completely paranoid,” Enjolras admitted slowly. “There _is_ a leak at the palace and we’re it.”

Bossuet choked again as Grantaire sat still, his mind working faster than his mouth for once. All his mouth could do was gawp like a goldfish.

“All of you together are a leak in the palace?” Bossuet repeated, trying to grasp the concept.

“Yes,” Combeferre said. “Even though it doesn’t mention our exact situation directly, the NDA you both signed is worded in such a way that you can’t tell anyone about this,” he said, a note of warning in his gravelled voice. “We had to cover ourselves in case you somehow found out accidentally.”

“No wonder it was so huge,” Grantaire said, feeling like his voice was floating somewhere above him. He noticed the stony, determined look on Enjolras’ face and felt a pang of pity amongst the confusion and intrigue. This was more than he bargained for when he let himself be kissed by that beautiful man, and now his feet itched with the urge to run. “So…what’s happening here? You guys are working together to bring down the King from the inside, is that it?”

“Exactly,” Bahorel said. “We’ve seen what this institution can do. We’ve lived it all our lives, so we had to do something.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, his cognac was mostly forgotten in his hand as the rusty cogs in his brain turned. “You guys wrote and published the article, didn’t you? You criticised him and mentioned the Queen’s death knowing it would put the King between a rock and a hard place.”

“He’s got three options,” Enjolras said, counting them on his fingers. “He can either start censoring the media, ignore it and pretend it doesn’t exist or be honest with his people now that they’re publicly asking questions again. We want to see which he’ll do, so we know what to do next.”

“Why are you telling _us_?” Bossuet asked suspiciously. “We’ve got nothing to do with it and we have our own battles to focus on.”

“It’s because I trust you,” Enjolras said easily, his eyes lingering on Grantaire for a little too long before realising it was Bossuet who had spoken.

“And because, eventually, having American allies in the White House could be a valuable asset to us,” Feuilly said, giving up on trying to pick music and stepping towards them to sit cross-legged on the floor.

Grantaire frowned as he considered that point.

“We know you’re as critical as the monarchical system as we are,” Jehan said, his lithe fingers wrapped around Courfeyrac’s as they sat on the cluttered coffee table. "Would you help us if we asked?"

Grantaire knocked back his cognac so fast it barely touched his throat. His lungs were a cumbersome weight in his chest and they were crying out for tobacco. “We might be a valuable asset," he repeated carefully. "Is that the _main_ reason why you’re telling us? Why you’re trying to be our friends?”

There was a pregnant pause and Enjolras shook his head. He locked eyes with Grantaire with an honest, fierce expression. “No.”

Grantaire considered what he should do or say next, fully aware that there were six pairs of anticipating eyes staring at him and Bossuet. He took a large breath and sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “Okay…if you truly want us to be your _asset_ or you want our help,” he began, focusing his stare at Enjolras, “you need to tell me the truth about your mother so we’re all on the same page.”

The air was thick with melancholy suspense, and nobody moved except to glance Enjolras – his expression a blank slate, apart from his eyes which momentarily misted then darkened as he straightened his spine. “Have you got cigarettes?”

“Never known without them,” he said, pulling them from his jacket pocket.

“Can the rest of you tell Bossuet?” Enjolras asked, striding towards the bifold back door. “I want to have this conversation privately with Grantaire.”

The others watched as Grantaire followed Enjolras out of the room, only daring to speak once they were sure they were out of earshot. Outside, the atmosphere was cool and fresh on their warming faces.

Enjolras closed the door behind them and collapsed on the garden steps, lifting a hand so Grantaire could place a cigarette between his fingers and light it.

“This wasn’t the evening I was expecting,” Grantaire admitted, lighting a cigarette of his own and gingerly sitting beside him.

“Me either. This wasn’t how I wanted to talk to you about all of this,” Enjolras sighed, watching the smoke rise in front of him. “I wish I had gotten to you before the protestors.”

“Yeah, why would they compare your mom to Princess Diana?” Grantaire asked, letting his knee touch Enjolras’. “Do they think your Dad plotted her death like the British royals?”

Enjolras shrugged and took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s just one theory. There’s also a rumour she had a congenital disease which was why she retreated from royal duties. Conspiracy theorists said the disease was being hidden from the public to stop people knowing that Louis and I had it too.”

“And that’s not true either?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras said. “She was the healthiest woman I knew. She wasn’t murdered by an intruder or a member of staff either, as some suggested.”

“Then what happened?” Grantaire asked. “Be as vague as you want but let me know what I’m getting myself into.”

Enjolras smiled slightly and knocked ash to the stone step beneath their feet. “Maman struggled with being Queen…I don’t think she was expecting the reality of it. Things were good for a few years but eventually, she and Dad started arguing a lot. She opposed a lot of his ideals, but he wouldn’t listen to her when she tried to give him advice or raise her concerns. He constantly told her not to get involved. Things were tense and she spent a lot of time on the Trianon Estate with Louis and me.”

“It’s a beautiful place,” Grantaire said lightly. “I can imagine why she’d want to stay there.”

“She loved it,” Enjolras agreed, smiling at a memory that Grantaire didn’t know, and didn’t _want_ to know. He thought he should keep as much of her to himself as he wanted. “Since Dad wasn’t listening to her about policy and public opinion, she tried to do as much good to counteract the bad as possible. She threw herself into charity work and publicly showed her opposition to the things Dad was doing, hoping it would get him to listen.”

Grantaire smiled. “Like mother, like son.”

“Exactly. Like the King is with me, he was furious at her for undermining him,” Enjolras said. “The arguing only escalated the more she did it. She started to resent being Queen and, as things progressed and Dad’s rule got worse, she realised he wasn’t the man she fell in love with anymore. She had become disillusioned and was so unhappy being with him. She missed her world outside of the palace…she wanted to go back and she told him so.”

“She wanted a divorce?” Grantaire assumed, holding his burnt-out cigarette end between his fingers since he didn’t know where to discard it.

Enjolras nodded. “Dad panicked. He thought that a divorce would be damaging to the unified front he was trying to portray. Plus, a divorce would’ve been harder to hide from the public than the arguments and growing disdain. He told her that if she left him, she wouldn’t be able to take us with her. He hammered home that Louis and I were tethered to the palace and she wouldn’t be given regular access to us if she left. He told her that leaving him would mean she'd have no choice but to abandon us too.”

“What a fucking asshole,” Grantaire huffed. “The more you tell this story, the more I hate him.”

“Buckle up for the rest,” Enjolras sighed, tipping his head back to watch the evening swallow the sky. “To get her to stay, he promised her he’d take her thoughts on policy into consideration and that she could have a bigger say in running the country. So, to keep us, and full of hope that things would change, she stayed. Naturally, he broke those promises very quickly, but Dad kept an iron grip on her. He was worried about losing her and what she might say to the public or press if she left. Everything he _did_ to her,” he paused to convey a meaning he didn’t want to say out loud. “Every time he dangled me and Louis in front of her like bait…it was all done out of selfish self-preservation. He didn’t care how damaging it was to her or to us because it suited him.”

Grantaire sat on the edge of the step, his throat feeling a lot like sandpaper.

“Anyway, unsurprisingly, Maman struggled even more than she had before. I don’t know what was going on in her head, but I think she was scared and frantic, like a bird trapped in an attic.” Enjolras took a deep breath and scratched his hairline. “Then one evening, six years ago, she said she was going to bed early because she had a migraine. I remember it so clearly. She knocked on my bedroom door and sat down on the bed, smiling a little as she watched me working on my first essay for university. I asked her what was up, and she said ‘nothing,’ she just wanted to tell me she loved me. She stared at me for a while and then came over to kiss me on the forehead, but I pushed her away and told her I was busy.”

Noticing the crack in his voice, Grantaire put his hand on Enjolras’ arm, half-expecting him to shake it off but he made no sign that he knew it was there at all.

“She smiled a little sadly after I said it, and leaned against the door frame, all sort of...sluggish. I just thought she was tired at the time because of the migraine…but…” he crushed the cigarette end in his hand. “Well, she went to bed and never woke up. She had taken an overdose of her sleeping pills, and the coroner said she was dangerously intoxicated...I don't know if that was the case when she came to see me...but even if it wasn't, I wish I had noticed...”

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ arm and handed him another cigarette. “Fuck…I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said, the cigarette hanging from his lips as he struggled to light it with his angry hands. After a moment, Grantaire gently took the lighter from his trembling fingers and lit it for him, their faces glowing in the small heat of the flame.

“It’s not though,” Grantaire said lowering his hands to his lap. “Your Dad and your life sound like fucking nightmares. No wonder you’re hell-bent on committing treason.”

“Yeah…well…” Enjolras exhaled heavily and sniffed. “I fucking hated what Dad was doing to the public and his family even before Maman died…and then for him to lie to everyone and ban us from discussing her afterwards to save his own skin…the man is fucking evil.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I’m astounded…”

“That's not surprising,” Enjolras said. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

“No, not that,” Grantaire said, watching the tension tighten in Enjolras’ jaw. “I’m astounded by _you_. I’m in fucking _awe_ of you.” By now, he didn’t care that his ass was getting numb under the concrete. “The fact you’ve had to carry so much shit for so long, and you haven’t turned into a bitter prick is impressive enough, but the fact you’re still trying to do good knowing it could put you in a personal, and internationally, difficult position…what the fuck, dude? How can you stand to live with the man who treated your mother so poorly?”

Enjolras smiled despite the rage and sorrow burrowing in his heart, but the smile faltered when he realised he hadn’t told the story out loud for years. He blinked back the pinpricks of tears building at the corners of his eyes. “I’m not going to cry,” he said softly, mostly to himself. “I’m _not._ ”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire said gently, pulling Enjolras against him for a hug, revelling in the way Enjolras face was buried against his neck and how tightly his arms were wrapped around his waist. “Cry if you need to…God knows I would. It’s fucking shit.”

Enjolras let out a bitter laugh against Grantaire’s skin. “It’s _so_ shit!”

“I wish I could take you away from here,” Grantaire said, surprising himself. He dropped a kiss to the top of Enjolras’ head, but he wriggled free from Grantaire’s comforting arms.

“Don’t wish that,” Enjolras instructed, dabbing at his red, puffy eyes. “I’m needed here. I will _die_ here fighting this institution and that bastard if I must. I _will_ help the people my father abandoned, and I _will_ make sure my mother is remembered. I want to stay.”

Grantaire’s eyes danced with sentiment, his stomach tying itself in knots as his soul and body digested all the information that had been piled into his unsuspecting head. “France is lucky to have you in their corner,” he said honestly. “If anyone can help make a change, it’s you.”

“I know I’ve joked about this in the past,” Enjolras said, his face regaining its composure as he scanned Grantaire’s features, pressing his fingers to his cheek. “But that genuinely is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” He kissed him tenderly and longingly like he was trying to express something unspeakable and terrifying.

The taste of salt, smoke, and cognac lingered on Enjolras’ lips, reminding Grantaire of his own turbulent teenage years, causing a shiver run down his spine. Before he could get overwhelmed by Enjolras’ touch, he pulled away.

“Are you okay though?” Grantaire asked, his eyebrows set in a quizzical arch. “Like...really?”

Enjolras took a large breath and smiled, looking more like his usual self. The self he could be in private without consequence. “I’m more okay than you would probably expect me to be. I used to be worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“To begin with, I completely withdrew. I refused to go to any royal events after the funeral and I barely left my bedroom, but the King got super pissed off with me and literally, and I do mean _literally_ , dragged me into public life again. He was so full of rage.”

“What an absolute jackass,” Grantaire fumed.

“My feelings exactly. I wasn’t ready to go back into my role as Duke and Fils de France and I ended up having multiple panic attacks a day. I’ve been taking Beta Blockers for my anxiety ever since. Though, I really only need to take them on days where I have official royal events now instead of daily.”

Grantaire nodded. “Is that the tablet Combeferre gives you sometimes?”

“Yeah!” Enjolras smiled, shaking his head at himself. “I tried remembering to take it myself, but I always seem to get distracted by something or convince myself I’ll be okay…then it turns out I’m not.”

“I’m glad you have friends like him and the rest of them.”

“Me too. This may surprise you, but I used to have my Dad’s temper,” Enjolras told him. “I mean, my anger didn't come out nearly as often as his…but I was definitely a ball of fury for a good few years.”

“You?” Grantaire said, pretending to be shocked. “ _You_? The man who yelled at me multiple times for no reason had an anger problem? You’ve shocked me to my core!”

Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly, smirking. “See, that might have really annoyed me two years ago.”

“I hope I never get to see you that angry. I still have nightmares about you shouting at me in the car two months ago,” he teased, holding up his hands in surrender. “But I am glad you’re getting better.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, flashing a genuine smile that made Grantaire’s heart tremble. “Plotting and committing treason is surprisingly cathartic.”

“I’ll bet,” Grantaire said before grinning broadly. “Hey! Does this mean we’re Level Five friends now?”

Enjolras beamed – something wild and mischievous crossing his graceful features, like a cat about to knock over a vase. “I feel like that passed us by as soon as you put my cock in your mouth, but yeah, I guess so.”

Unable to resist it, Grantaire kissed him again, but he was smiling too much to make it anything more than a quick peck. After taking a few more minutes for themselves in the quiet, they meandered back into the living room, their fingertips brushing against one another’s as they walked.

The atmosphere between the other conspirators was as thick as a fog – they stopped murmuring between themselves as they returned, looking up with bated breath. Bossuet seemed particularly wan and tense about the shoulders – he looked at Grantaire with a slight tilt of his head. When Grantaire gave a single nod in response, his shoulders loosened, making his neck look twice as long, and he nodded back.

“We’re happy to help you wherever and whenever possible,” Grantaire told them all, feeling the air clear around them as everyone’s mouths began to twitch at the corners.

“More cognac to celebrate!” Enjolras said, clapping his hands together. “To Grantaire and Bossuet!” he said, raising his glass once they’d all been given a refill.

“To Grantaire and Bossuet!” they chanted back.

“And,” Courfeyrac said, smiling at Enjolras, “to Marguerite.”

“To Marguerite!” came the cry, making Enjolras’ chest fill with a righteous and proud warmth.

* * *

Grantaire didn’t know, or particularly care, how they ended up bagging Courfeyrac’s spare bedroom for the night. All he cared about was the feeling of Enjolras’ marble skin against his own under the sheets and the beautiful, blissful emptiness in his head.

Staring up at a low ceiling in a highly decorated room in a normal house, in a normal street, was a lovely feeling that Grantaire had almost forgotten existed. It was strange how quickly you could forget to appreciate the little things when you lived somewhere like the White House. Bowling alleys, swimming pools, tennis courts, and private movie theatres were great up to a point, but they didn’t compare to the domestic calm of a quiet semi-detached home.

Of course, he loved the White House and the journey it represented to his family, and yes, he certainly hoped they would carry on living there for another four years, but if he were totally honest, he couldn’t wait to live in a normal house again.

Their fingers were intertwined on top of the sheets, Enjolras’ head resting on Grantaire’s chest. He couldn’t help but marvel at the bold string of blue veins showing through his skin and the small scar across his middle and fourth knuckle. It was flat, silver, and barely visible unless you were looking closely.

“How did you get this scar?” Grantaire asked in a tired mumble, lifting their hands so he could kiss the mark in question. In the room down the hall, Courfeyrac burst out laughing and several people tried to hush him.

Enjolras gave him a proud smile and shuffled slightly under the covers. “I punched Louis in the face a few years ago and his tooth cut my knuckle open.”

“No way!” Grantaire chortled. “Did you knock his tooth out?”

“Unfortunately not,” Enjolras said with mock sadness. “The scar is a nice reminder of the incident though.”

“I’ve got a scar under my chin from where I slipped at a swimming pool as a kid,” Grantaire said. “I even managed to get blood in the pool and it freaked _so many_ people out.” He tilted his head so Enjolras could see the offending scar.

“No forehead scar, Potter?” Enjolras asked, pressing a quick kiss to Grantaire’ throat.

“Nope. But my chin scar does start to hurt around chlorine,” he said suspiciously. “I’m starting to think there’s an evil pool after me.”

“I’d never go swimming again. Just to be safe,” Enjolras agreed.

From the living room, Bossuet said a muffled ‘I miss you and I love you’ that made Grantaire bristle.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Grantaire shrugged. “I just…as much as I enjoy jetting over here every few weeks, I feel bad for Bossuet. He barely gets to see Joly because of how busy their schedules are. Constantly dragging him here with me doesn’t help.”

“Joly is that doctor friend of yours, right?”

“Mmhm. Joly sees Musichetta a lot more than Bossuet but even that, by comparison, isn’t much because of how late Joly works sometimes,” Grantaire sighed. “It sucks that they don’t all get to spend much time together.”

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. “Do you trust him?”

“Unequivocally.”

“Well,” Enjolras said slowly, stretching out the word’s one syllable as far as it would go. “If his schedule ever allows it, I’m sure he could come here with you and Bossuet. Musichetta can come too but I know she’s busy with your Dad and you’re a little bit frightened of her.”

“I’m not frightened of her,” he answered back unconvincingly. “But thank you. I’ll let Bossuet know.”

Enjolras nodded. “If everyone gels with them as friends, then maybe we’ll tell them what we told you.”

“You’re just recruiting me and my friends to build an Anti-Monarchist Avengers, aren’t you?” Grantaire said, his eyes crinkling as he teased him.

“I guess I am,” Enjolras laughed. “I’d really like to meet Joly and Musichetta one day though. Especially Musichetta…I mean, it will be great to meet someone who finds you as frustrating as I do!”

Grantaire pretended to be heartbroken, feigning a swoon. “If that’s the way you feel…” he said regretfully, slowly peeling himself away from Enjolras and getting out of bed.

“You get back here, mister,” Enjolras cried, before remembering he was supposed to be being quiet. He leaned across the bed to grab Grantaire around his naked waist.

“I thought you said you found me frustrating?” Grantaire grinned.

“I do,” Enjolras admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t also make my heart beat fifty times faster every time I look at you or talk to you.”

Grantaire fell back into bed with a triumphant sigh. “Are you sure that’s not your anxiety? I have that effect on many people and it's usually dread about ninety-five per cent of the time. My ex said she found that to be the case anyway.”

Frowning, Enjolras huffed. “Is that the same ex who wanted you to get rid of your moles?”

“That’s her,” Grantaire said, his voice falling into the oddly chipper tone it always did when he talked about Chelsea. “Even on our last date before we broke up, she said she was dreading it and she hoped I wouldn’t turn up.”

“Really? When was this?” Enjolras asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “Almost two years ago.”

“Have you been on a date since?”

“That depends on your definition of a date,” Grantaire decided. “If you think of it in the traditional sense, then no. I almost did with this guy I got talking to on Tinder, but it didn’t happen in the end.”

“How come?”

Grantaire shrugged nonchalantly. “There was so much press attention buzzing around Dad, Cosette, and me. I didn’t want the media finding out I was bisexual ‘cause I thought bigots had enough reason to be vitriolic towards me and my family.”

“That’s unfortunate but understandable,” Enjolras said, tucking his hair behind his ear. “I’ve never been on a date before. Not even a fake one ordered by the King.”

“He hasn’t organised some fake rendezvous with Princess Josephine to force you to fall in love with her?” Grantaire said, smiling despite himself. “That’s probably the most surprising thing about your Dad I’ve heard all day.”

Enjolras shook his head, a melancholic air beginning to fall over him. “I don’t think Dad cares if I’m in love with her or not. He’s expecting me to marry her regardless. But,” he continued, before Grantaire could interrupt with his opinion or a resentful remark, “I’m trying to trick him into thinking I want to marry someone else.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The British King’s eldest daughter is to be his successor,” Enjolras explained calmly. “I’m trying to convince Dad that marrying her would be the better idea. It would make me Prince Consort of the United Kingdom one day whilst Louis becomes King of France, leaving us both in internationally strong positions.”

Grantaire stared, open-mouthed, his bushy eyebrows drawn together so he could see them in his periphery. “That makes no sense…” he said, his mind doing somersaults. “It would still mean you marrying someone you didn’t like or love, into _another_ fucking monarchy, and it would make you miserable as all fuck.”

“I know,” Enjolras agreed, as casual and composed as though he were discussing what they should have for dinner. “The thing is, it’s an enticing enough prospect for Dad to sit back and consider it for a while, especially since he’s so obsessed with our legacy. Not only does _he_ have to consider it, but he would also have to decide whether it’s worth breaking that tie with Belgium and he’d have to spend time negotiating with the U.K.” Enjolras nodded at his own idea. “He leaves me alone about marrying Josephine whilst he sorts it out, and I can carry on with my own plans, business as usual.”

“Okay…” Grantaire said slowly, rubbing his forehead. “I can understand why it would work to a point…but what if he does manage to negotiate a marriage between you and the British princess? You’ll still have to marry, be Prince Consort, and betray your ideals.”

Enjolras shrugged in acknowledgement. “Yeah…and if it ever gets to that point, I’ll come up with another plan. For now, it’s enough to give me the space I need to keep doing what I need to do. With any luck though, it won’t ever be an issue.”

“You’re willing to take that risk?”

“I’ll do anything to make France a better place,” Enjolras said. “I mean, being unhappy for a short period of time to create a better life for millions of others and the generations beyond that? That’s got to be worth it if it comes to that, right?”

Grantaire sighed heavily, a hint of affection creeping into his breath. “I can’t believe _you_ called _me_ a self-sacrificing idiot. Have you ever heard yourself talk?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras said, laughing to himself.

“Make me,” Grantaire replied, grinning, and rolling on top of the Duke, kissing him deeply.

* * *

They lay quietly in the dark until Enjolras drifted off to sleep, unburdened and looking beautifully untroubled. Grantaire watched him, his mind frothing forth thoughts like an open bottle of sparkling water at a restaurant: threatening to overspill at any moment, and completely unwanted.

It wasn’t until his jaw and neck began to feel stiff that he realised he was grinding his teeth. He grabbed his phone from the floor, moving carefully so as not to jostle the bed.

3 AM.

Suddenly, he’d never been so jealous of Enjolras as he slept heavily; his shallow breathing barely making a sound, his weary head and body motionless and calm. Sleeping like the dead.

Marguerite’s story had jumped to the forefront of Grantaire’s mind and he had the overwhelming urge to wake the too-still prince and ask him to stay awake forever.

His hand was a hair’s breadth away from touching Enjolras’ shoulder when he heard scuffling and lowered voices from the kitchen.

“Can’t sleep either?” Courfeyrac asked, not whispering as effectively as he thought he was.

“It’s been a whirlwind twenty-four hours,” Combeferre answered, then added something Grantaire couldn’t make out.

He chewed his lip and the decision came as quick as the snap of a band. He climbed out of bed and tip-toed across the floor to pick up his discarded clothes, doing his best to put them on the right way round without looking. He only stopped once as Enjolras turned over in his sleep to lie on his stomach, his lips parted on the pillow.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre smiled at him as Grantaire came ambling into the kitchen, plopping himself down on one of the breakfast-bar stools which were cherry red like the cabinets.

“Hey there, Romeo,” Courfeyrac teased, immediately getting a death glare from Combeferre. That only made Courfeyrac laugh and clamp his hand over his mouth.

Grantaire smiled from the corner of his mouth, glancing between the two. “I don’t know what Enjolras has told you, nor do I really care what he said, but he’s clearly said something.”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, smiling too as he took off his glasses to clean the lenses on his t-shirt. “Even if he hadn’t, it's fairly obvious.”

“Okay, good. I could do with your help on something,” Grantaire told them, regarding both men closely. He rested his chin in his hands, a light flush tingling his cheeks. “Who’s up for a little late-night antic?”


	12. The One Where Grantaire Can't Keep a Secret

Nervous was too weak a word to explain how he was feeling.

It didn’t encompass the breadth of his exhaustion, or how twitchy and jittery his legs and fingers were as they seemed to move of their own accord. It didn’t adequately describe how tight the ball of anxiety in his chest was – it was like he’d been trapped in an air-tight container by a callous child on a dare, and been covered with jagged stones that were pushing themselves into the soft folds of his skin.

If Grantaire had to pick a phrase, the concept of butterflies in his stomach was somewhat appropriate, if a little too gentle – it had an ethereal quality that suggested something beyond human. An alien experience. But, on the other hand, the eloquent phrase ‘shitting bricks’ was also something that came to mind.

The early morning breeze that stung his eyes and blew through his messy hair was enough to keep him grounded, plus it was easy to distract himself from his own impatience thanks the curious collection of garden gnomes Courfeyrac had acquired. They were nestled in the flower beds and sitting beneath a tree at the other end of the garden – eerily still and smiling without emotion. One, DePlume, as Grantaire discovered later, was particularly off-putting due to the angular void where its nose should’ve been and the chipped eyes that gave it an all-seeing, all-knowing quality.

“He’s coming!” Courfeyrac said, running towards Grantaire with Combeferre and the others in tow, all in varying states of alertness after their unexpected early wake up call. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said easily. “And thanks for helping out.”

“You’re more than welcome,” Combeferre answered through a yawn, squinting in the golden sunlight.

“À la boulangerie!” Courfeyrac roared, throwing his fist into the air as if he were leading his friends into battle. The birds who'd nestled in the trees for the night squawked their approval and took to the sky as the group left the garden through the back gate.

Alone, Grantaire leaned against the bark of the nearest tree, looking down at his efforts and praying that nothing would go cold before Enjolras got to it.

The note Combeferre had scribbled and slipped under the door with a firm knock simply said, _“We’re all having breakfast in the garden this morning. It’s a beautiful day!”_

There was only one lie in the message, and he hoped Enjolras wouldn’t mind. _All_.

Grantaire didn’t have long to dwell on whether all this was a bad idea; Enjolras was opening the back door and looking at the scene through narrowed eyes, his head sitting at a small, puppy-dog tilt.

“What’s this? Where is everyone?” Enjolras asked as he walked towards him, gazing at the blanket that had been laid out on the grass. A large tray of pain au chocolat sat in the middle, a bowl of fresh-cut berries and a steaming cafetière beside it. Two mismatched plates were perched on living room scatter cushions, each holding a hot and gooey croque monsieur.

Grantaire shrugged and smiled, feeling too much like the quirky love interest in a B-movie for his taste. “It’s a breakfast picnic…and a date,” he explained, watching Enjolras’ features for any sign that he was about to laugh and shoot him down. “You know…if you want to go on a date with me, that is.”

“You got up early to set up a date you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go on?” Enjolras asked, his mouth set in a straight line.

“I got some help from Courfeyrac and Combeferre too,” he said, quickly losing confidence in his great romantic plan. “If you think it’s a terrible idea, I can take this inside and tell the others to come back. It’s not a big deal.” He shrugged and rubbed the nape of his neck, about two seconds away from picking everything and chucking it over the fence.

Enjolras’ face broke out into a large smile, reminding Grantaire of a sunflower as it turned towards the sun; proud, bright, and utterly beautiful. “Shut up,” he said, laughing lightly, “this is amazing! Of course, I want to go on a proper date with you.”

“Oh!” Grantaire said. His whole body felt as if it were floating and his smile gave away just how relieved he was, which made Enjolras grin broader. “Good...okay, um, can I pour you some coffee?” Grantaire asked, kneeling on the ground.

“That would be great. Thanks,” Enjolras said, sitting opposite him in the grass, the scent of the croque monsieur making him feel somewhat homesick for a home he’d never get to know again. “I can’t believe you did this,” he added, taking the coffee from Grantaire, letting his fingers brush against his. “Thank you.”

“Trust me, it’s my pleasure,” Grantaire said, his face aflame with delight and diffidence. “I can’t promise it’s as good as your mom’s,” he said apologetically as Enjolras took a bite from the cheesy sandwich, “but I wanted to try.”

“It’s delicious,” he said through a messy mouthful. “So…what do you usually talk about on a date? I feel like we already know a lot about one another.”

“We do,” Grantaire agreed, ripping off a section of his sandwich. “But that doesn’t matter. We can talk about anything you want…or we can be quiet and enjoy one another’s company in silence. Personally, I like to ask philosophical questions on a first date because I’m a pretentious little asshole who loves getting into debates and arguments,” he said proudly. “Cosette thinks it’s a dreadful approach.”

“Try me.”

“Hm?” Grantaire said through a mouthful of ham.

“Well, I don’t know if I agree with you or Cosette. You’ll have to ask me one of your philosophical questions so I can decide.”

Grantaire looked at him as if it were a challenge and grinned. “If the universe was a finite thing, what do you think beyond the edge of the universe would look like?”

Enjolras swallowed slowly. “I’d like to think it would be a white expanse where you could look out at, and live in, a suspended state of nothing. Like, you could just float there in the light and the quiet. I think it would look how silence feels after a concert.”

“I already know that’s wrong,” Grantaire said, then butted in again before Enjolras could argue that an opinion on a hypothetical scenario couldn’t be wrong. “That sounds more like a purgatory situation. If you’ve gone over the edge of the universe then it stands to scientific reason that a white expanse wouldn’t exist because of the scientific makeup of the colour white. Nah, beyond the edge of the universe would be black with spots of colour where you could see the edges of other universes. Like a black confetti cake.”

Enjolras smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Is this a question you ask so you can show off what you know about science instead of actually discussing opinions and philosophy?”

“It’s both,” he admitted, throwing a strawberry into the air, and catching it in his mouth. “It’s a multi-faceted question.”

They spent an hour discussing the universe and its impossible questions with Grantaire mentally thanking himself for joining Debate Club when he started uni. If he hadn’t, God knows what sort of stupid shit would have fallen out of his mouth instead of these menial questions. For all he knew, he might have accidentally gone too deep and creepy about his relationship with Chelsea, spilled a secret or two about himself (not that any of his secrets were really _that_ terrible), or he might have clammed up completely and asked Enjolras for his opinion on ham.

As it was, Enjolras seemed to like the debate approach and was as eager for a friendly argument as Grantaire. Neither could remember the last time they laughed so much much during a debate – Grantaire’s throat was raw and Enjolras managed to give himself a stitch.

The rest of their troupe arrived back shortly after they had washed the dishes, packed away the blanket, and kissed like teenagers on the sofa. Luckily, they heard the key in the lock and jumped apart, smoothing out their hair and pretending they had been discussing Grantaire’s upcoming graduation.

“It’s still not for another two months,” Grantaire said, clearing his throat. “But you should come, if you want to.” He glanced behind him as everyone clambered into the living room, much more alive than they had been earlier. “In fact, you should all come to my graduation, if you can and want to. We’re gonna have a cookout and you guys could make a little city break out of it.”

They murmured amongst themselves, smiling and nodding as Jehan leaned over the back of the sofa. “What’s a cookout?”

“I think it’s American for ‘barbecue,’” said Feuilly in a stage whisper, which made Bahorel laugh for no discernible reason.

“He could’ve just said that,” Jehan said with a sniff.

“We’ll see what our schedules are like closer to the time,” Combeferre promised. “I’m sure we can organise something.”

“Unfortunately, I need to organise Grantaire into a plane,” Bossuet said apologetically, scrolling through his text messages. “We’re running way behind already.”

Grantaire frowned but got up anyway to retrieve his bag from the spare room. Bahorel and Combeferre reluctantly broke the news to Enjolras that they should be getting back to the palace, and Enjolras let out a dramatic, disappointed groan.

“I’ll call you when I get home,” Grantaire promised Enjolras as they said farewell in the back of the sedan, the palace sitting at the corner of their eyes.

“You’d better,” Enjolras said, grinning. “I’ll have to organise the second date when we see each other next.”

Grantaire grinned too. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

“I'm counting on it.”

Scouting for nosy members of the public or opportunistic photographers through the tinted windows, they let their hands find one another’s in the backseat before gently kissing goodbye.

* * *

Six Fridays came and went in the blink of an eye. Cardamom coffee, transatlantic flights, and inflammatory magazine headlines all seemed to be on tap.

In that time, Grantaire had taken another flight to Versailles for a completely arbitrary, made-up reason that he couldn’t remember – all he remembered was the promised second date. A perfectly quiet evening where they watched one another’s favourite movies in the Grand Trianon with popcorn and nachos, a blanket calm surrounding them that would have been noticeably absent in the main palace.

When Louis-Joseph was invited to watch a New York Yankees baseball game by a friend, Enjolras asked to come too, feigning an interest by researching the sport and giving a bullshit impassioned speech about it before his brother relented, mostly to get him to shut up. He sat through the game in silence, only making a sound when the crowd around him did the same. Throughout, he was texting Grantaire until they, just by chance, on a weird little coincidence, realised they were _both_ in the crowd and were, luckily, only a few rows apart and several seats down from one another.

On that occasion, their third date had been a brief, but no less precious, physical encounter in the home team’s changing room. They had carefully broken in after deciding that meeting in the toilets was too big of a risk.

Enjolras had left for France again only the day before, and Cosette, her face a deep shade of scarlet, dropped this week’s collection magazines and newspapers on Grantaire’s bed.

The first headline read: “ _FSOTUS AND DUKE OF NORMANDY GET EXCLUSIVE TOUR OF NEW YORK YANKEES STADIUM_ ” but Grantaire didn’t bat an eyelid at it, or at the accompanying photo of them looking mildly surprised in the changing room, smiling sheepishly and hoping their faces weren't too flushed.

“Do you know how many times you’ve jetted off to France or the Duke has come here since the beginning of the year?” she asked sternly, throwing a magazine at his head. A cacophony of pages slapped together as they sliced the air and the bounced off the wall.

“I don’t really care,” he said nonchalantly, sitting up after he’d dived backwards on the bed to miss the throwing star of papercuts.

“ _Six_ ,” she exclaimed. “ _Seven_ if you want to include the wedding itself!”

“No, I don’t want to include that.”

Cosette ignored him. “Six! And Dad’s just told me you’ve invited the Duke and his fucking friends to your graduation party!”

“Yeah, and? That’s what friends do. They invite each other to stuff, they see one another on a semi-regular basis, and they talk to each other,” he said slowly and carefully, feeling a pang of guilt for talking to her like a child.

“You’re not just friends though, are you?” Cosette said, perching on the edge of the bed with her ruddy lower lip between her pearlescent teeth. “I’m not stupid and I’m certainly more perceptive than you seem to think I am.”

Grantaire shook his head and groaned, quickly weighing up his options. She clearly knew, or at least had an inkling, and with every day that passed Grantaire kept the secret from her, the worse she’d feel about it. If he were in her shoes, he’d also feel put out that she was hiding something from him.

Best friends and confidants; that’s what they’d promised each other when they were children.

“Fine,” he huffed. “ _Fine!_ Okay, so, we might be seeing one another,” Grantaire squinted, trying to find the correct words in his foggy brain, “in a romantic capacity…”

“Are you _together_?”

“I don’t know,” Grantaire admitted. “We’ve not discussed it.”

“How long have you been seeing each other?”

“Not that long,” Grantaire promised her. “About two months or so.”

Cosette narrowed her glittering eyes. “Have you told Dad?”

“No,” he said quickly. “There’s no way I’m telling him, not right now at least.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cosette asked, a frown on her glossed mouth. “I thought we told each other everything.”

“I didn’t want to at first because I didn’t think it would turn into something worth talking about.” Grantaire admitted. “Like, I didn’t think I could take you giving me some fucking pity party or telling me how much you hated him anyway, like you did with Chelsea, if it all went tits up.”

Cosette smiled slightly. “Well, I always said that Enjolras was nice when you got to know him, and clearly I was right,” she teased.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said fondly, throwing the magazine back at her. “I’ll never tell him this, but he’s more than nice. The guy is a fucking saint. Seriously. It’s infuriating.”

She neatened her pile of magazines, smiling, feeling like they were teenagers again and shifted to sit close to him. “Wanna skip the media review, eat Ben & Jerry’s, and talk about boys instead?”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but we haven’t called it quits just yet,” Grantaire grinned. “I feel like the ice cream might be a bit premature.”

"Fair enough." Cosette gently tugged at one of Grantaire’s unruly curls. “Are you happy?”

The question was more loaded than she realised, and he considered it for longer than he probably should have. There was a lot he wasn’t happy about and there was a lot for him to be down-right concerned about…and he still wasn’t sure if he should be alerting anyone about any safety concerns regarding the King, the marriage plot, and Marguerite. And yet…nothing made him smile more than the good morning texts, goodnight phone calls, and the anticipation of the next time they saw one another in the flesh.

“I’m as happy as I can be knowing that where I put my cock could cause a huge political scandal spanning continents, and a diplomatic incident the world hasn’t seen since Wallis Simpson sucked that King’s dick.”

Cosette frowned then burst into childish laughter. “Wow…and you wanna be a senator with that mouth?”

“My mouth gets me what I want,” Grantaire pointed out smugly as he clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“You’re actually really proud of all this, aren’t you?”

“Extremely,” Grantaire admitted. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you – I love you and I don’t want to be someone that hides things from you. I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

Cosette smiled and curled into Grantaire’s side. “No, I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t expect you to tell me everything…you’re allowed to keep things to yourself…it’s just,” she grumbled under her breath. “I feel like everything’s changing and I wanted something to still be the same.”

“What’s changing?” Grantaire asked, squeezing her shoulder. “Things aren’t changing that much, are they?”

“I’m getting married for a start,” she answered, looking at her ring. “It’s a good change…but it’s scary too. You’re starting to get distant and you’re disappearing to Europe every few weeks, and even when you’re here, you’re not _here_ because you’re staring at your phone all the time or you’re thinking about something else when I talk to you. Mom’s got her new job and I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like, you’re getting a new job in the campaign, and we might have to move again. Thénardier has won so many of the primaries – I’m almost certain he’ll be the official Republican nominee.”

Grantaire tried not to laugh – she reminded him of himself sometimes. Overthinking everything and getting overwhelmed by every little thing that dared brush past their carefully constructed and planned out lives. But now, after being asked to get involved with actual fucking treason, nothing seemed like a big deal in comparison.

“You’re not getting married for ages,” he pointed out. “Nothing has changed except you’ve got some new jewellery. Honestly, you're right; I _could_ be more present, and I’ll put more effort into being the brother we both want me to be. As for your mom, she’s doing great and she loves you. I bet she misses you just as much, and when you both have time off together, you’ll get to have a great day catching up.” He chewed at his lip as he thought about Thénardier. This was something he was concerned about too, but he tried not to show it. “We always knew that Thénardier was going to be the biggest problem in this election…but that just means we’re prepared. Dad will beat him, and we won’t have to move…I’m sure of it.”

“Really?” Cosette asked. “Because you weren’t so sure a few weeks ago.”

“No,” he conceded. “But you weren’t this pessimistic a few weeks ago. Election year is always stressful and our confidence over this will change multiple times before November.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Cosette laughed. “I’m sure Miami will clear my head. Did I tell you that we managed to get a private beach house?”

Grantaire nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his features. “Speaking of which…since you know now, I think I might invite Enjolras instead of Éponine. What do you think?”

“What, so it’s like a couple’s weekend?” Cosette asked, considering the proposal.

“I guess,” Grantaire said, “but I wouldn’t call it a couple’s weekend. As far as I’m aware, we’re not a couple.”

He decided not to wonder why he and Enjolras hadn’t had a conversation to define what they were and instead suggested Cosette should hurry up and get on with the media review.

* * *

The sun was growing in strength towards the end of May. The South Lawn had never looked greener, and even through the smoke of the barbecue, the world’s colour looked as if it had been toggled with in photoshop.

Valjean flipped a burger, getting a splash of grease on his ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. “Who’s ready for burgers?” he called out to the crowd. “Vegetarian ones are on the yellow plate, vegan on the green, and meat on the white serving dish. Come help yourselves!”

The French guests were as follows: Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel - the usual suspects who were able to take a trip to America whenever they liked. Grantaire wasn’t too upset by Feuilly and Jehan’s absence. God knows they had more important work to do, and since Grantaire had been accepted into their group chat, he was able to text and FaceTime them during their work breaks.

The four Frenchmen walked up to the barbecue with Grantaire, Cosette, and Marius, laughing at a story Courfeyrac was telling about the time he was almost tripped up by Eva Green whilst carrying a three-foot a chocolate sculpture.

“How’s the new leg?” Grantaire asked Joly as they joined the queue behind him.

“It’s not let me down yet,” he said, knocking his knuckles against the socket. “I’m just glad I don’t have to rely solely on the cane or the spare leg for a while.”

“I still feel bad about helping you break the other one,” Grantaire admitted. “I hope it didn’t cause too many issues…Musichetta wasn’t thrilled.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Joly laughed, looking towards the buffet table where she was helping herself to a kebab, talking with Bossuet as he laughed and kissed her hair. “But at least it’s a fun story.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said shuffling forward in the queue. “Have you got much time off or is it just today?”

Getting to the front, Joly said a jovial thank you to Valjean as he picked up a veggie burger. “I have a few days off. It’ll be nice to spend evenings with Musichetta.”

“Sorry Bossuet won’t be there as well,” Grantaire winced, letting his father ruffle his hair as he reminded him of how proud he was for the eighth time that day. “I told him he didn’t need to come.”

“It’s true,” Enjolras sighed, deciding to go for a hot dog with onions and mustard, though, the American mustard unnerved him. Why did it have to be so… _yellow_? “I told him that Bahorel would be able to handle the trip on his own.”

“I appreciate that,” Joly said, leading them to the large patio set that had been brought out for the occasion. “He’s just worried, that’s all. If there’s four of you and only one PPO and something happens…”

“My ears are burning,” Bossuet said, sitting next to Joly, Musichetta following him – a glow surrounding her that Grantaire recognised as rare contentment.

“They were just discussing how good at your job you are and how dedicated you are,” Bahorel said. “I wish they said the same about me.”

“We do,” Enjolras said, sucking mustard from his thumb. “But we can’t do it where you might overhear us, just in case you get cocky and lax in your position.”

Bahorel grinned, lifting his sunglasses to perch them on his head. “In all my life I’ve never been lax. Ask Feuilly.”

After a burst of laughter from everyone around the table, Grantaire made a point of asking Joly if that was medically okay and said, “Hey, whatever floats your boat though, Bahorel.”

At the other end of the table, Javert and Éponine were talking quietly to themselves with furrowed brows and small frowns. Occasionally, they looked up to stare at Valjean as he served himself some leftovers, or once, at Grantaire who smiled at them. Caught off guard, they smiled back and turned their chairs inward so he couldn’t see their faces.

It was Grantaire’s turn to frown then and he excused himself from the table under the pretence of getting everyone more drinks. It was unfortunate for Éponine and Javert to be sat close to the end of the table where the enormous drinks cooler and jugs of soft drinks were being kept. It meant that as he pretended to agonise between the choice of lemonade or iced tea, he could hear several snippets of their hushed conversation.

“Are you sure about this? I can’t do anything to change your mind?” Javert asked.

“No,” Éponine said resolutely. There was the tiniest hint of an apology in her voice that could only be detected if you knew her well. “It needs to be this way.”

Javert nodded sagely and ran his fingers across his short, scratchy beard. “We can tell people. The truth could be the answer to everything.”

“It could also be the biggest mistake we make at this juncture,” Éponine argued. “I appreciate that you want to help and that you’ve always wanted to help…but I need to do this my way. I’ve made my choice and I’m sticking by it.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Javert said darkly.

“So do I,” she said as her phone began to ring. Grantaire couldn’t see her face as she checked the caller ID, but she carried her body as if it were made from mud.

“Is that him?” Javert asked.

“Yeah…” she cleared her throat and stood up, striding towards Grantaire as she put her unanswered phone in her back pocket. “Hey, sorry, I have to go early. Work calls,” she shrugged.

“That’s okay,” Grantaire said, pouring out a glass of the iced tea. “I’m sure I’ll be the one leaving parties early for overtime one day.”

Éponine smiled, her phone finally falling silent. “I’m sure you will. You’ll be a great senator one day…I hope you know that.”

“Thank you…That means a lot coming from you.” He felt bolstered by her faith, but a niggling doubt in the back of his mind tried to tell him that she was mistaken and all of this…his graduation…his grades…even his adoption had been a fluke. He wouldn’t let it though – not today.

For a split second, it looked as if Éponine was going to hug him but instead, she said her congratulations and left swiftly, making her excuses to Valjean when he tried to convince her to stay for a little longer.

Grantaire returned to his spot at the table with the drinks; Enjolras put a hand to his wrist.

“Is she okay?” he asked, helping him hand out the glasses.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, more to convince himself than anyone else. “I think she’s just got a lot of work stuff to focus on.” He sat down again, grinning like he hadn’t heard something that sounded an awful lot like _another_ conspiracy. “So, what are you guys going to do whilst we’re in Miami?” he asked Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

A light turned on in Combeferre – his eyes becoming animated behind his thin glasses. “We’re going to go to the Smithsonian. I’ve always wanted to go.”

“It’s true,” Courfeyrac said, “It’s all he’s been able to talk about for the past week. We’ll probably do one of the night tours as well.”

“I highly recommend the National Gallery of Art,” Grantaire told them. “It’s beautiful and one of my favourite places in the world.”

“We’ll check it out,” Combeferre promised. “I’d be surprised if we don’t manage to go to all the museums and galleries.”

“You’d be wandering them for weeks if you had your way,” Enjolras teased Combeferre.

Combeferre’s rebuttal was interrupted by Cosette and Marius banging on their glasses, their faces gleaming.

“Thanks for coming, everyone!” Cosette said. “It’s been a long couple of years for Grantaire and he’s worked so hard to get to graduation day – I can hardly believe it’s finally happened. He’s the hardest working person I know and I’ll always treasure how fucking stupid he looks in a mortarboard, and yes, I can already tell he’s going to kill me for all this later,” she laughed, winking at him. “We’re all so proud of you, and Marius and I have decided to set up a little game we used to play as kids to celebrate. All those who want to play should get into teams and put away their electronics ready for water balloon dodgeball!”

Enjolras immediately turned to Grantaire, a sly smile on his face that let Grantaire know he was about to cause trouble. “France versus America?”

“That depends…will you agree to my terms?”

“What are they?”

“If we win,” Grantaire said, talking quietly as the others put their phones and earbuds on the table, gabbling excitedly. “You have to come and see me in my room at midnight.”

“And if we win?” Enjolras asked.

“I’ll come to you.”

Enjolras sighed heavily and looked away wistfully. “Not very imaginative for someone so artistic but okay, I guess.”

The battle was long and hard-fought.

Courfeyrac took out Marius early doors with Cosette avenging his premature exit by throwing a balloon too close to Courfeyrac’s face – Valjean, as umpire, blew his whistle and decreed that both Courfeyrac and Cosette were out. Cosette grumbled as she left the court, adamant it wasn’t a foul and she was being unfairly penalised.

Combeferre was surprisingly good at the game as he worked in tandem with Bahorel to protect Enjolras, their weakest link. In rapid succession, Combeferre threw a barrage of balloons, hitting Musichetta in the hip and narrowly missing Joly’s arm.

As the French reloaded, Bossuet and Joly were able to take out Bahorel but, as they celebrated, Combeferre threw a balloon that hit Bossuet in the back, making him stumble forward and trip over his own foot. In the chaos, Grantaire managed to hit Combeferre, finally spotting Enjolras as he swiftly took shelter with a balloon behind a tree.

“I’ve got this one, Joly,” Grantaire told him. “Stand down and tend to your man,” he added gravely, feeling like the leader of a decimated army as he pointed at Bossuet. “This one’s all mine. Come out, Enjolras, you can’t hide forever,” he sang.

“He’s right, Monseigneur,” Valjean said regretfully. “You must play on the court.”

Enjolras emerged reluctantly from the tree, two balloons in his hands and a new determined expression plastered on his face as his teammates cheered him on. “Scared, Potter?”

“You wish,” Grantaire snarled, immediately throwing a balloon.

The balloon sailed past Enjolras as he quickly darted to the left, making Grantaire shout out a startled “what?!”

Enjolras grinned and threw a balloon back. It missed by a long way and Enjolras quickly dodged another projectile by dropping down and rolling over the grass.

It kept happening – Enjolras was nimbly dodging each balloon, his reaction times much faster than Grantaire anticipated for someone who didn’t play sports. He didn’t know what Enjolras got up to to get his reactions so sharp - Grantaire was too focused on hitting the slippery bastard to really care.

Finally, they were down to only one balloon each, both determined to be the victor.

They threw at the same time and within seconds, the sound of rubber on skin and a spattering of water echoed across the lawn. A cheer went up as Grantaire looked upon a soaked Enjolras, whose white t-shirt was clinging to his chest.

“America wins!” Valjean declared, coming to raise Grantaire’s hand in the air.

“Hell yeah it does,” Grantaire responded, winking at Enjolras who was now doing his best to look upset with the outcome.

Their evening went as planned. Enjolras knocked on the door at midnight on the dot, their mouths met a second later. Sweet, and not-so-sweet, words were whispered into one another’s ears as clothes were dropped to the floor and they enjoyed one another’s company in every way they knew how.

What didn’t go as planned, however, was the next morning.

Grantaire woke, earlier than anticipated, to the sound of Musichetta furiously banging on the door. “I’m coming in if you don’t answer in the next thirty seconds!” she shouted.

There was a warm weight on his chest that he recognised as Enjolras, who had fallen asleep before he could remember to sneak back to his own bedroom. A siren went off in his head as he nudged Enjolras awake, both tumbling out of bed.

“What’s happening?” Enjolras whispered, shying away from the panicked knocking coming from the other side of the door. He pulled on his underwear, trying not to fall over in the rush.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire said, doing the same. “Just…get in the fucking closet and keep quiet…and yes,” he said, rolling his eyes at Enjolras’ smirk, “we can laugh at the irony of shoving you into a closet later.”

With furious force, Musichetta burst through the door just as Grantaire shut the wardrobe on Enjolras, glad that the rest of Enjolras’ clothes were on the other side of the bed.

“The President needs to see you. Urgently,” she informed him, barely blinking at his semi-naked state. “And I don’t even care if you have to go like that. Just get there and get there now.”

Grantaire frowned and yawned. “Slow down…what’s going on?”

“Haven’t you seen the news?” Musichetta asked, buzzing around the room like a fly looking for an exit. She stopped in her tracks when she spotted a canvas shoe at the bottom of the bed she didn’t recognise. “For fuck’s sake, Grantaire. Did you invite someone here last night? Have they signed an NDA? Are you sneaking Chelsea in for booty calls again because I swear to God…”

Before Grantaire could lie his way out of it, Enjolras sneezed as dust tickled his nostrils, setting off his allergies. Musichetta turned her head so fast that it clicked like someone had snapped her spine, she lurched forward to yank open the wardrobe door, finding Enjolras peeking through Grantaire’s shirts with an apologetic look, just as naked as Grantaire.

“Good morning,” Enjolras said cheerfully, reading the flicker of fire in her eyes as an invitation to explain himself. “I was just…looking for my shoe…and you found it! Thanks…”

She turned away from him without a word and set her predator stare on Grantaire instead, who was looking at the floor and waiting for God to smite him. “Are you pissing on my leg right now?” she asked. “Seriously, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

Grantaire winced, his skin turning a disgusting shade of beetroot. “I…”

“You know what? I don’t want to hear it,” she said throwing her hands up. “Does your father know about this?”

“No,” Grantaire said, wishing he’d had the time to put his dressing gown on. He felt more exposed now than when he was completely naked.

“Then you’ll tell him today,” she instructed, beginning to walk to the bedroom door with a determined step. “Or I will. Get dressed, both of you. Grantaire, your father is waiting in his office. You’ll be leaving for Miami a little late today,” she informed them, slamming the door as she left.

Enjolras crawled out of the wardrobe, shamefaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Grantaire said, looking for his phone on the floor. “Is it okay if I tell Dad? It might make things easier, to be honest. Obviously, I’ll tell him it needs to stay on the down-low for your sake.”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras said through the lump in his throat. “Whatever makes life easier for you.”

When Grantaire found his phone, he saw the push notification before he’d even unlocked the screen. His face contorted into a sickly sneer and he resisted the urge to throw his phone through the open window. “Fuck!” he yelled instead. “How could she do this to us?! That double-crossing little...”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asked kindly, coming to place a gentle hand on the small of Grantaire’s back.

He didn’t say anything, he just showed the headline to Enjolras, his hand shaking with rage.

She was his friend, wasn't she? Hadn’t she spent years coaching him? Hadn’t he helped her with her campaign and stayed up all night two nights in a row to finish making her leaflets? Hadn’t she told Valjean how much she admired him over and over again?

**INDEPENDENT SENATOR ÉPONINE JULIA ENDORSES THÉNARDIER FOR PRESIDENT.**

The by-line was more horrifying than the headline itself.

_SENATOR JULIA ACCEPTS PLACE IN PROPOSED CABINET IF REPUBLICAN NOMINATION IS SECURED_


	13. Icarus and Daedalus

The atmosphere in the office was one of devastation and confusion, but Valjean looked optimistic despite the blow their campaign had been dealt. Sitting across from his grand desk was the President’s aides, staff, and friends, all eager to find out what their next move would be – Cosette and Marius were sitting hand in hand, and Musichetta, already in her seat at the front, watched Grantaire enter the office, late, with judgemental eyes.

“Now that everyone has arrived, we can get started,” Valjean said as Grantaire slipped into the nearest available chair. “Thanks for coming. I know this is quite a shock and Éponine is a close friend to many of you…but this is just a small hurdle,” he assured them.

As Valjean began to reassure his team that they’d overcome and they should focus on securing endorsements from Mueller and Wilson, Grantaire scanned the nodding faces behind him for Javert. He was at the back with a stony expression and checking his phone from time to time. When he caught Grantaire looking at him, he nodded without smiling, then smoothed his tie with the flat of his hand.

“We’ll review our policies, look at what Thénardier is offering, and see what we’ve let her, and possibly others, down on,” Valjean assured them. “Though we all had a moment of panic this morning, I can promise that this isn’t as large an issue as we're thinking - it feels worse because it was a shock. Everyone will be receiving an email from me later today about our next steps and our plans for the campaign going forward. I’m not worried and I hope no one else will be either by the end of the day.”

He wrapped up the meeting with a smile and thanked everyone for their time as they filed out, some mumbling between themselves. Musichetta glared at Grantaire again as she left, a million threats being promised without a word passing her lips. He blinked slowly at her, like a cat showing its affection as she walked out.

Now, it was just Javert he was waiting on, but he showed no signs of leaving. He was clapping Valjean on the back and heartily agreeing with his sentiment that things would be better.

“Dad,” Grantaire interrupted impatiently. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

“Of course,” he said with a serene smile. “Sorry, Javert, duty calls.” He promised they would pick up their conversation again in a few minutes and Javert left with a considering glance at Grantaire. “How are you doing, champ?” Valjean asked. “I know you looked up to Éponine, but I hope you don’t take this too personally.”

Grantaire clenched his teeth and ground his molars together. “I mean…I feel like she’s betrayed us…but…I think there’s something else going on.”

“What do you mean?” Valjean asked, consternation crossing his heavy brows as he got up to perch on the edge of his desk rather than sit behind it. A habit he’d picked up to look more fatherly than presidential.

“At the cookout yesterday, I heard Éponine talking to Javert. He was trying to get her to not do something and wanted her to tell someone about something, but she kept saying she had to do whatever it was. I thought it was odd at first, but now…it feels, not sinister as such, but, like, it didn’t sound great? It’s possible Javert knew she was going to do this, and he knows why, and it’s something more than just a difference on policy. What if they're trying to ruin you?”

Valjean nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you for telling me,” he said kindly. “But I do have to ask, just because I know how your head spirals sometimes, but are you _completely_ sure there’s a deeper problem with Éponine and that Javert is involved? I know you’ve been extremely critical of him in the past and I don’t want you projecting past concerns on this issue.”

The question took him off guard. After a moment's reflection, it occurred to Grantaire that his father was right to be sceptical. To someone on the outside, it probably sounded absurd or overdramatic – here he was, telling the President that there might be a conspiracy between Thénardier, Javert, and Éponine, to essentially, bring about the end of his Presidential career. To overthrow him.

On one hand, it was believable enough – politics could often be a messy and dangerous affair with plenty of backstabbing. On the other, it was hard to believe that Éponine had spent so many years being a friend to them, supporting them, helping them, giving them her advice and her thoughts, just to ditch them when they needed her support the most. When Grantaire needed her the most. No one thought she could play at politics so ruthlessly.

Of course, and this was the basis of this thinking, Grantaire was now intimately aware of conspiracy theories and betrayal plots. Hell, he’d agreed to take part in one when the time came. He wondered if anyone thought he might be capable of betraying those closest to him. Was he any better than Éponine? Was Enjolras? Was he thinking about it too deeply?

“Honestly?” he said finally through a quiet, frustrated sigh. “No, I’m not sure. But I know what I heard, and I know it didn’t sound right.”

“Then I will keep an eye on things and see what Javert knows. Covertly, of course,” Valjean added, keenly aware of his son’s concerns surrounding Javert and his past. “Now, go to Miami, relax, and let me worry about all this for a few days, okay? I want you rested up for that new job.” He grinned and moved to get off the desk, but Grantaire stopped him in his tracks.

“Fuck, that’s not even what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, feeling like he was about to throw up. “I, um, I wanted to let you know that I’ve been seeing someone…”

Valjean looked pleasantly surprised by this revelation and he sat back with a soft smile. “Oh, that’s good, isn’t it? Why do you look so…forlorn...about it?”

“Because I don’t think who I’m seeing is going to be good for your campaign, and possibly our reputation, if the press and the public ever found out.”

“Oh…” Valjean said, a little more gravely this time, his shoulders slumping. “Who is it? Are the rumours true and you’ve been seeing Éponine? Is that what all this has been about?”

Grantaire frowned. “What? Ew, no,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. “I wish people would stop saying that. No, I’m kind of seeing…" he swallowed hard and laughed sharply. "I've been seeing Enjolras, actually.”

There was a long pause as Valjean stared forward with wide eyes, pressing his lips together firmly as he tried to process this new roadblock. He tapped his fingers on his knee and nodded again. “As in _Enjolras_ , the Duke of Normandy?”

“How many Enjolras’ do you know?” Grantaire laughed awkwardly. “I know this isn’t great timing but…”

“Really, honey? Enjolras?” Valjean asked, a visible headache flashing over his face. “Seven billion people on this planet and you had to start seeing the French Prince with the increasingly despotic King for a father?”

“Trust me, I didn’t want it to be him at first either. But it is…and maybe it always has been.”

“That explains all the travelling, I suppose,” Valjean said, still looking somewhat shellshocked. “Have you used any federally funded jets for your trips?”

“No, I would never,” Grantaire said honestly.

“Good…good…” he said, growing quiet and stroking his jaw with his thumb. “How long has this been going on?”

“Not long at all. Only about two months or so.”

“I see,” Valjean said with a heavy sigh. “That gives this question so much more weight. I need you to know how serious this situation is, Grantaire. I need you to understand that this relationship you’ve embarked on is going to be forever. Even if you two don’t last forever, this relationship will follow you forever if the public and press ever get wind of it. It will follow you everywhere you go and the press, and those with nothing better to do, will ask you about it forever. So…do you feel forever about him?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer but found he couldn’t. He hadn’t thought about it like that. Whilst he was so wrapped up in the current circumstances and the plot against the King, he hadn’t stopped to think that this might be a permanent mark on his own life. Sure, if anyone did find out, it would be a big deal for a while, but he figured it would just burn out like a tired fire. But that’s one of the troubles of fire – the heat and the damage linger long after the flames have been extinguished.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire said, his throat dry. It was strange that he was having this conversation about their relationship whilst Enjolras sat alone in his bedroom upstairs, unaware of the outcome. “I mean…I really like him, Dad. I like him with the same energy I had when I hated him…he makes me feel something I’ve not felt in a long time.”

At this, Valjean couldn’t help but smile. “That’s good…I’m glad you feel that way about him, mijo. But,” he said firmly, his body falling seamlessly into President mode. “I’m sorry but I’m taking you off the campaign.”

“You’re doing what?!” he cried out, feeling betrayed for the second time that day.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean repeated in a tone that said he wouldn't be changing his mind. “You’re flying too close to the sun, and unlike Daedalus, I will not give you the wax wings in which you will kill yourself with. I love you and I need to protect you and this campaign, and the administration we worked so hard for.”

“No one will find out,” Grantaire said, recoiling at how much he sounded like he was begging. “I would not put ourselves or the things we’ve worked for in danger. Enjolras knows better than anyone how important discretion is.”

“No,” Valjean said firmly. “My word is final. I cannot give the press more of an opportunity to dig around you and make this public. I want you on this campaign, but I can’t let you stay on it in good conscience…the press has too many things to pick you out on already without this being added to them. It’s for your own good.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Daedalus gave Icarus the wings so he might be free.”

“And you will have them one day,” Valjean promised. “Unfortunately, now is not the right time. I want you to go to Miami, forget about politics, spend some time with Enjolras, and make sure you could stomach a forever with him. If you decide you can’t, this needs to end now, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire said, swallowing the lump in his throat, feeling once again like the small child cowered against a lamppost on a sweltering Texan afternoon.

* * *

They drove with the top down, the wind in their hair and three sets of hands in the air as Marius drove the last hour on the highway. It had been a taxing fifteen-hour drive with one evening spent at a cheap motel under the following fake names: Marcus Pond, Colleen Falconer, Grayson Falconer-Val Kilmer (a name that was pushing its luck but had been reluctantly allowed after the initially proposed Colonel Angus and E. Jack Ulates), and Anton Emmanuel.

Bossuet and Bahorel followed closely behind in a separate car to give their charges a sense of freedom, although, by now, all four of them were used to having someone lurking nearby and watching them. In fact, they could be being followed by a stranger one day and never notice, not least because Bahorel ad Bossuet would have taken them out before they even got the chance to realise.

They fell, exhausted, into their cheap rooms. They were not shown to them by a bellhop as they were used to, instead, key cards were slipped to them by a bored receptionist in a creased uniform, her unlaced trainers dragging across the tiles as she chewed her gum and went back to her chair, barely looking at them.

It was gone eleven by the time they dropped to their beds, tired and stiff from almost ten hours on the road. Grantaire was still reeling from the morning and he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face, and saying, “sorry. I can’t promise I’ll be any fun this weekend.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Enjolras asked, kneeling on the bed behind him and resting his chin on his shoulder. He pressed a comforting hand on the small of Grantaire’s back.

“As long as we do not speak the traitor’s name,” Grantaire sighed.

“Which traitor?” Enjolras asked, smiling slightly. “You seem to attract them.”

“There’s only one traitor I care about attracting,” he answered, turning his head a fraction to kiss Enjolras’ cheek. “I just can’t believe she’s shafted us like this…and I can’t believe Dad dropped me from the campaign. I cared so fucking much about them both.”

“You can still care,” Enjolras pointed out, kissing the crook of Grantaire’s neck with a feather touch. “You don’t have to stop caring.”

“It’s just fucking disheartening,” Grantaire said, moving away from Enjolras to sit opposite him at the head of the bed, his back pressed against the flat pillows. “She was supposed to be me, like, five years from now or whatever. I used to look at her and see my past and my future all at once like she was a magic mirror.” He looked down at his hands as he picked at his nails, trying to find the right words and feeling like he had to prove why he felt so wretched. “She looked like me, she was taken into care like me, she was unapologetic in who she was, and she was openly queer like I want to be, you know? We shared the same principles and we had the same hopes and wants for the world and I thought…if she can do it, what’s stopping me?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras told him firmly. “Nothing is stopping you. You can still be that person.”

Grantaire continued as if Enjolras hadn’t said anything. “She got into politics because she wanted to do good, but now it feels like she’s thrown it all away, and for what? Is that what we’re all destined to do? We do good for a while and then drop all our principles when we’re offered power, influence, and a fuck load of cash? It’s blood money. She’s agreed to take blood money.”

“I can’t begin to understand what kind of frustration and anger you’re feeling,” Enjolras admitted, leaning forward to place his hand over Grantaire’s. “But what I do know is that you’re passionate and you’re good. She made her choice and she’ll have her reasons for them, but they don’t have to be yours. They won’t be yours.”

“It’s just disappointing,” Grantaire said, sighing heavily. “I thought I’d have someone to keep looking up to.”

“You can be the person the next generation of politicians can look up to,” Enjolras assured him. “Be the change you want to see in the world and all that.”

A smile began to bud at the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “You were doing so well until you said, ‘and all that.’ For someone who’s usually so good with words, that was terrible.”

“Just trying to lighten the atmosphere,” Enjolras told him, smiling too and squeezing his hands.

“Well, just to darken it again, I think one of the biggest things I’m struggling with right now is the feeling of displacement,” he admitted. “Like, I had a clear vision of where I was going yesterday. I could see the wood through the trees…but now I’m not so sure. I think I’m just as displaced as you.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked. “Are you talking about the time you said I didn’t belong with the royals or the public? That kind of displacement?”

Grantaire nodded. “I mean, I didn’t belong in Argentina with my birth parents, I didn’t belong with them in Texas either, I didn’t belong in the foster home I got dragged to after. Then came Dad and he took me in, and it took me so long to feel like I belonged there. Then he was president, and everyone made me feel like I didn’t belong in the White House. Éponine was living, breathing proof that I could, and did, belong. But now she’s betrayed us all and Dad’s ripped the campaign away from me…and once again I’m floating in between all these different states of being.”

“It’s different circumstances and again, I can’t begin to understand how you feel, but you’re not alone. If you want, we can be displaced together.” Enjolras offered, crawling up to Grantaire to caress his cheek.

In return, Grantaire pressed his hand to Enjolras’ and smiled. “I can’t think of a better person to be displaced with.”

And that was true, he realised, a split second later. He hadn’t said it because he thought that was the polite thing to say or because it was what he thought Enjolras wanted to hear. No.

His father’s voice echoed around his head. _Forever_. Maybe forever and the constant feeling of otherness would be more palatable when Enjolras was only a call, a text, a flight, a kiss, a breath away.

“We’ll carve a space in the world for us and everyone else who’s been displaced,” Enjolras said. “This shitty motel seems as good a place to start as any.”

“Our space,” Grantaire agreed. “If the world won’t give us the space we deserve, we’ll just have to take it ourselves.”

But all of that was the previous night’s concern. Now, they were laughing in the back seat of Marius’ father’s Chevrolet Corvette, their hands trying to catch the wind as it breezed past them. On the horizon lay the promise of sandy beaches, sunshine, privacy, and mojito after mojito.

“Faster, brother!” Grantaire cried, leaning forward to clap Marius on the shoulder. “Make us fear for our lives!”

“Absolutely not,” Marius yelled back. “Put your seat belt on, _oh my god_!”

Grantaire lounged back in his seat and grinned at the soft wisps of hair coming loose from Enjolras’ messy top-knot. He used a slender hand to brush the hair from his eyes, his cheeks reddened from the wind.

“Have I got something on my face?” Enjolras asked, chuckling as he crossed his long legs like the femme fatale in a noir film. That’s what Grantaire thought it looked like anyway.

“You’ve got a whole lot of gorgeous on your face, but I don’t know if there’s anything else.”

Cosette whacked the back of her head against the headrest and craned her neck to try and glance at the back seats. “Are you two going to be gross the whole weekend?”

“Grosser than you could possibly imagine,” Grantaire informed her, glee and pride plastered across his face as if he had just won the lottery. “I want this weekend to be so gross, you have no idea.”

“Marius, baby, turn this car around,” Cosette said, scrunching up her nose and facing the front again. “Grantaire’s going to make me sick.”

“It’s tempting,” Marius said, not taking his eyes off the road. “I burn like a peach and I hate how sand gets everywhere. Why did it have to be Miami?”

Grantaire and Enjolras looked at one another with raised eyebrows and fell into giggles, whilst Cosette just patted a confused Marius on the thigh.

“What?” he asked. “Why are you laughing?”

“No reason,” Grantaire insisted, wiping tears from under his lashes. “You’re so right…everyone knows how peaches are famous for burning easily. Right up there with straw, gasoline, and matches.”

“They do!” Marius insisted, “if you leave a peach out in the sun, it gets burned!”

“That could be true of most things,” Enjolras said to make Marius feel less self-conscious.

“Either that or it just gets warm and a little bit mushy,” Grantaire pointed out.

Marius shook his head and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Peaches burn in the sun!” he insisted again.

“Honey,” Cosette said authoritatively, putting on her sunglasses as the light began to sear her eyes. “Please stop arguing with him. Grantaire is a fucking nerd, an argumentative prick, and president of Debate Club. He will wreck you.”

“And we certainly wouldn’t want that,” Grantaire said innocently. “Wrecking him is your job, isn’t it, Jellybean?” he added, bringing back her childhood pet name and batting his eyelashes gracefully.

Enjolras stared between the two siblings, holding back his laughter as he watched Cosette planning her next move and Grantaire eagerly anticipating it. Instead of saying anything, she shrugged and kept quiet, a smirk on her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. This, he could tell, was a more terrifying response in Grantaire’s mind because now he was wide-eyed and sitting in his chair properly. No words were exchanged but they all knew there would be a retaliation, they just didn’t know when or how.

No one mentioned the peach again.

They had rented a luxury villa that was situated so closely to Miami Beach that they might as well have slept in a tent on the sand, staring up at the stars and the broad, glowing moon. The windows of the villa were floor to ceiling and adorned with thin, linen curtains that were just enough to keep their privacy, though, the villa was so high up that no-one could possibly see into the living room without binoculars. Even then, they would have to be at a contortionist’s angle to see whatever scenario was unfolding within the room’s four walls.

Cosette was wandering around the villa, barefoot, opening every window and door as Marius linked his phone to the speakers they’d brought with them, blaring out the “Ultimate Beach Playlist” they had collaborated on. Even Bahorel and Bossuet had thrown in their suggestions, knowing that, even though this wasn't a holiday for them, their charges would let them have their own fun and bring them into the group as if they weren’t being paid to take this sojourn into Florida.

The two protection officers were busying themselves by checking each room for hidden cameras, microphones, or weapons. As soon as they were satisfied the accommodation was safe, they accepted the beers offered to them by Grantaire who was already half a drink down and trying to smoke indoors as if the house was his to do with as he pleased. But, being the son of the President of the United States, perhaps he was.

Enjolras was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, texting his friends in Washington DC and Versailles, letting them know he’d arrived safely. A small crease had appeared in his forehead which Grantaire sensed like a predator sensed heat.

“No, no, no,” he said, coming to sit beside him. “You look like you’re thinking about home problems. I thought we decided after last night that we wouldn’t dwell on home problems this weekend?”

“I’m not. Not really anyway,” he said with a shrug. “Jehan said that Héloïse and Montparnasse have been staying at the palace, that’s all. I just thought it was weird since the King hates Montparnasse almost as much as he does me.”

“That’s home problems,” Grantaire told him. “Ignore your cousins and your Dad for a few days. Let’s continue carving that space for us, yeah?”

“We will,” Enjolras promised him, smiling. “But I am interested in why they’re there. Montparnasse dislikes the King as well, so of course, I find his sudden appearance intriguing.”

“Can’t you play detective later?” Grantaire asked, removing a cigarette from behind his ear and handing it to Enjolras. “Because as much as I want to help you dismantle the monarchy, I also really want to smoke, get very drunk, and see how many new places I can put my lips on you.”

“Get a room, you horny bastards,” Cosette instructed, walking through the room to get to the open plan kitchen. “And make sure it’s as far away from mine as possible.”

Enjolras laughed, his skin pricking rose. “We’ll behave, I promise,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket and holding the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I’ll make him behave.”

“Good luck,” Cosette said dryly. “We’ve been trying to tame the beast for years,” she said, watching them run through the living room hand in had to the balcony, their eyes sparkling with the same ferocity as sunlight on the waves.


	14. People Never Die in Miami

“ _Shorts_!” Grantaire yelled, making Marius jump like a skittish squirrel as he discreetly checked his emails for any political news. “Shorts! You’re wearing little shorts like I always imagined!” Grantaire was pointing at Enjolras who had just entered the living room, looking about as confused and startled as Marius.

Enjolras looked down at the garment in question and his long pale legs, wondering why it was the shorts that he’d decided to comment on rather than the loose vest top he’d stolen from Grantaire when he realised he’d only brought t-shirts with him, cementing his reputation as someone who was hopeless at packing. “It’s ridiculously hot…so I’m wearing shorts, yes,” he agreed, trying to dampen down his own amused smile. “I don’t know why you’re acting like I’ve got a chicken on my head or something.”

“It’s not _that_ hot,” Grantaire said, dragging his gleeful eyes over Enjolras’ impressive form. “This is pretty standard weather.”

“Alright, Mr Buenos Aires,” Enjolras teased. “There’s no need to rub in your heat acclimatisation.”

“It’s usually hotter in Washington D.C than Buenos Aires,” Grantaire reliably informed him, not noticing Marius leaving the room, or Cosette, who, a few seconds earlier, had beckoned him out with a beach towel under her arm and her too-big sun hat blocking the door. “Like, how did you get the idea that Buenos Aires is super hot?”

“Because it helped produce you and you’re super hot,” Enjolras said sweetly, coming to sit beside him and kiss him good morning.

Grantaire was smiling too much to let the kiss take hold properly. Partly because Enjolras had a habit of making him grin without meaning to just by being in the room, and partly because he was being tickled by Enjolras’ increasingly out-of-control hair. “It’s the humidity making it feel hot here,” he said, tugging on a strand of Enjolras’ hair. “You’re not used to it.”

“I won’t argue with that,” he conceded, horrifically aware of the dry, yellow straw that had piled itself on top of his head overnight. “Tell me your hair secrets,” he whispered, running his fingers through Grantaire’s perfect curls and waves. If anything, Grantaire’s hair looked bouncier and healthier out here by the sea.

“It’s leave-in conditioner and luck, I guess,” Grantaire said. “I think you look cute like this, though. I remember thinking at the wedding that you never seem to have a hair out of place…it’s weirdly nice knowing you have the capacity to look like a scarecrow. It’s proof that you’re a real person rather than a robot created by the monarchy to infiltrate the masses.”

Enjolras squinted and cleared any expression from his face. “Abort Mission! Abort Mission! The human has seen through my disguise!”

“Okay, you’re adorable,” Grantaire said, gently tapping the tip of Enjolras’ nose. “By the way, to say thanks for all Cosette did organising the games and such at the cookout, I promised I’d make us all dinner tonight. Do you fancy helping me out in the kitchen?”

There was a moment of quiet as Enjolras frowned at the arm of the sofa, staring at it like he was convinced it would move if he concentrated hard enough. “Why don’t we all go out? We’re on a mini holiday and there are loads of restaurants around…so we might as well…”

“Yeah but we have all of tomorrow to do that,” Grantaire argued. “Plus, I thought it might be nice if the four of us sat down and talked to each other somewhere quiet. You and Marius are practically strangers and I’m sure Bossuet and Bahorel wouldn’t begrudge a night off to enjoy Miami on their own terms.”

Enjolras scrunched up his face like a child trying a lemon for the first time, wrinkling his nose. “I guess you’re right…”

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to,” Grantaire said easily. “Go and get pissed at a bar, do some shopping, or burn like a peach at the beach,” he grinned, looking around for the absent Marius. He felt a stab of disappointment when he realised he’d gone.

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to help…” Enjolras admitted sheepishly as he scratched the back of his neck.

Grantaire narrowed his eyes as Enjolras’ Versailles lifestyle flashed before his eyes. “You don’t mean to tell me…”

“Yep,” Enjolras said, shamefaced. “I don’t know how to cook. I’ve never cooked before.”

“Oh, _baby_ ,” Grantaire said, flitting between three emotions: shock, pity, and sheer joy, all in as many seconds. “How?! Not even at university?”

“I still lived at the palace…My father didn’t think it was safe for me to move out and go it alone.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t,” Grantaire grumbled. “You haven’t even cooked something whilst staying at a friend’s house? You’ve never even helped?”

Enjolras frowned. “Isn’t it rude to cook in someone else’s house? It’s not my home so why should I go rooting around the cupboards like it is?”

In his chest, Grantaire’s heart was swelling and breaking at the same time. On one hand, it was another piece of proof that Enjolras was an imperfect person that made Grantaire adore him more. On the other, it was insane to him that in almost twenty-four years, Enjolras had never learned to cook, and had never needed to because he always had staff to do it for him. Grantaire couldn’t imagine living in such a state of excess that he didn’t have to learn or think about learning, basic home-making skills. He probably couldn’t mend clothes, unclog a toilet, or write a resume either. Although, it was perhaps equally insane that Grantaire had no choice but to provide for himself as much as he could as a toddler.

Okay, he couldn’t write a resume at the age of three - he couldn’t even write his own name properly or count to five, but he knew how to make a sandwich and how to build a ladder from household items so he could reach the fridge and kitchen cabinets. At four he knew how to fix basic plumbing issues and mend his own trousers – skills that came in handy when other children at the foster home fell over and ruined their only tights or pants.

“Would you like to learn?” Grantaire asked. “It’ll be fun, and I promise I'll make it easy for you.”

“You’re not going to bully me over how useless I am?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I might do a little bit,” he admitted. “But that’s a risk you’re going to have to take.”

“Even though I know you’re going to roast me horribly about it…the idea that I might be able to make dinner for you myself one day is certainly appealing…”

“Well, someone’s got to do the roasting,” Grantaire said wickedly. “Because you don’t know how!”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Enjolras grinned and sealed the deal by kissing him again, leaving Grantaire to savour the taste of toothpaste on his tongue and the scent of Enjolras’ light cologne that reminded him of the fresh coastal air on the French Riviera.

“Okay, you can teach me how to cook,” Enjolras said. “But first, we sunbathe and enjoy some of that hot weather I’m not used to, okay?”

* * *

The beach was busier than anticipated but they managed to use Cosette’s obnoxious pink and yellow sun hat as a homing device. She was stretched out on a sun lounger looking comfortable and confident in her white bikini despite her strong, chubby thighs and the uneven birthmark on the left side of her belly that she had been bullied for before, were on display. The sunglasses Enjolras bought for her were perched on the end of her nose, making her look extra chic and cool. Beside her, Marius was sitting on a beach towel under a sun umbrella, liberally applying sun cream to the parts of his arms and legs that weren’t covered by his t-shirt and cargo shorts.

“Glad you could finally make it,” Cosette said without looking up at the two late arrivals. She plunged her hand into the cooler between her and Marius and handed them both a beer.

A few metres behind them, Bahorel and Bossuet were sitting on sun loungers too, wearing large black sunglasses that wouldn’t look out of place in a spy film. Thank God they had decided not to wear their black suits and earpieces as well, or all discretion would be completely out the window.

“Have you two stopped being gross yet?” she taunted the boys good-naturedly as they plonked themselves down in the sand. “This is a public place, you know?”

“Shut up,” Grantaire said, pretending to be annoyed with her. “We all had to watch you be gross and sappy when you first got into a relationship with Marius, so now it’s your turn to watch me do it.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows sharply and Grantaire clapped a hand over his mouth as though he were trying to cram the words back down his throat, screaming on the inside all the while.

“Oh…we’re in a relationship now, are we?” Enjolras asked, smiling slightly as he picked at the label of his beer bottle, small flecks of paper getting stuck beneath his short nails.

“Well done, Grantaire,” Cosette said, barking out a laugh. “You’re a smooth operator as always.”

“I don’t…” Grantaire stammered, staring at Enjolras with panicked eyes. “I mean, I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras assured him with a light shrug of his shoulder. He laughed and pressed his feet further into the warm sand, wiggling his bare toes. “I’m not denying it or arguing against it…I just think it would’ve been nice to hear it from you first before you told your sister.” He glanced at Grantaire with sparkling eyes and a coy smile.

At this blessed reassurance, Grantaire let out a shaky, relieved breath, smiling back at him with a flutter of excitement in his stomach. His whole body felt as if it were made from helium. A forbidden fruit was sitting only an arm’s length away, and its face was now tilted towards the sky with its eyes closed, letting the sun kiss his throat as Grantaire had done the night before. Enjolras was a forbidden and precious thing that was now, officially, Grantaire’s, and that made him feel as if anything were possible.

* * *

Browner and tipsier than they had been a few hours ago, Grantaire and Enjolras traipsed through a local supermarket, trailing sand from their flip-flops across the tiled floor and feeling far too warm beneath their baseball caps, which were pulled low over their brows. Enjolras had to keep adjusting his as the sheer volume of his hair was gradually pushing it off his head.

“Babe, can you grab me a couple of the red bell peppers?” Grantaire asked, dropping two onions into their shopping basket. “If you know what those look like, of course.”

Ignoring the quip, Enjolras picked up the peppers and put them into the basket. “You probably shouldn’t be calling me that in public.”

“Probably,” he agreed, slowly moving through the aisle to get a box of raisins. “But it’s so fun to say.”

Enjolras nodded, smiling. “I get that,” he said, grabbing a pack of ground beef from the shelf as Grantaire pointed to it. “Not to get sentimental, but I wish I could hold your hand or kiss you in public as other couples can,” he admitted softly.

“We should come up with a hand gesture to replace public displays of affection,” Grantaire mused. “Maybe we should put our fingers to our lips as if we were deep in thought or telling someone to be quiet or something,” he said nonchalantly.

“That’s not a terrible idea,” Enjolras said, warming to the idea much quicker than Grantaire. “It’s subtle and literally no one would know what we’re saying to each other. It feels like reclaiming a sign of oppression from people who want us to be quiet and keep this hidden, then using it to display the very affection they seek to destroy.”

Grantaire smiled from the corner of his mouth as he tried to decide between two brands of ready-made puff pastry. “Don’t you ever wish we could take a day off from that kind of thinking?” he asked, throwing the cheaper of the two brands into the basket. “Like, we could just go about our days not having to worry about whether we could be openly… _together_ ,” he said, rather proving his point as he checked to see if anyone had heard him. “Or, on a similar note, I could walk around wearing a hoodie without worrying if someone might accuse me of being a drug dealer, or if I’m recognised, no one using my casual clothes as a way to try and prove that I’m not First Son material. Like, what if _you_ could live your life free from the shackles you were born into without worrying that your father would beat his citizens into submission with them once you’d gotten yourself free? Wouldn’t that be something?” He had to make a conscious effort to keep his voice down as he became more impassioned. “Wouldn’t it be nice to take a break from assessing everything we did politically and instead we could just live freely?”

“It would be nice,” Enjolras agreed, a melancholy smile on his lips and behind his eyes. “But I thought we weren’t going to talk about home stuff this weekend? All that sounded suspiciously like a political rant.”

“I’m allowed to break my own rules,” Grantaire said pompously. “If I make it, I can break it.”

Enjolras snorted. “That’s a train of thought my father follows and look where it’s gotten him.”

“He hasn’t broken you,” Grantaire insisted. “You’re one of the strongest, most put-together people I know.”

“It’s not just me he has that attitude towards though.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right,” Grantaire said, stopping in the middle of the wine aisle. “Malbec or Cabernet?”

Enjolras peered into the basket and assessed the quality of the beef, the jar of olives, and the little jars of paprika, cumin, and oregano. “Malbec,” he said easily. “I can’t believe you had to ask.”

“If anything, I was testing you,” Grantaire said as he put two bottles into the basket. He then took a third to be on the safe side.

* * *

With Marius and Cosette still on the beach and now playing volleyball with another couple, now was a good time to begin Enjolras’ culinary adventure. Grantaire linked his phone to the speakers, playing a chorus of soothing songs from one of his many playlists so they wouldn’t get distracted singing along.

“I’m going to assume you know how to use a knife,” Grantaire said, handing Enjolras the vegetables. “All you need to do is chop these whilst I season and brown the beef.”

“Pretty sure I can manage that,” Enjolras said, searching the drawers for a knife. He picked up a bread knife and Grantaire immediately slapped it from his hand and gave him a utility knife instead, thinking it was probably safer than a chef’s knife.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to chop with a bread knife?” Enjolras asked, peeling the skin from an onion.

“It would,” Grantaire agreed, warming oil in a pan on the stove. “But the teeth on the knife tend to, like, mash up and tear delicate ingredients. Plus, if we’re going to teach you how to cook, we might as well teach you how to use the correct knives as well.”

“If we’re cooking all of this, anyway, does it really matter if the ingredients get a little damaged?” Enjolras wondered aloud, steadying the onion on the chopping board. He crookedly cut it in half with his index finger extended, pushing on the spine of the blade.

“Some recipes require chunkier chunks,” Grantaire said easily, dropping the beef into the pan and smiling as it began to sizzle and spit. “If you cut certain ingredients too small, or tear them into bits with a bread knife, they cook down too much, and it doesn’t look good and the texture of the dish comes out wrong. Plus, some ingredients are barely detectable when you cut them too small. They turn to mush and the flavour just disappears.”

As Enjolras went to cut the two halves of the onion in half again, Grantaire quickly swooped in behind him to gently place his hand over Enjolras’, encouraging him to tuck his finger under the handle with his other. He guided his hand as he showed him how to chop professionally at half speed. Unable to stop himself, Grantaire pressed a kiss to the back of Enjolras’ neck and shoulder as they worked.

“Is this how all chefs teach their students?” Enjolras asked, grinning broadly. “If so, I totally understand why people go to culinary school.”

“Nah. Most students aren’t as hot as you.” He gently slapped Enjolras’ ass and returned to the beef, liberally seasoning it and breaking it up into smaller pieces with the wooden spoon. Once it was browned all over, he transferred the meat into a bowl.

Grantaire soon opened the surplus bottle of Malbec and poured out two glasses, leaning against the kitchen island and sipping as he watched Enjolras’ clumsy hands slowly become defter with each cut of the two bell peppers and each rough slice of the olives. Enjolras’ proud smile after he’d finished chopping sent a warm shiver over Grantaire’s chest, through his stomach and down into his toes.

Since he looked so eager to carry on and learn, Grantaire talked him through seasoning and cooking the vegetables and how to make the rest of the filling for their empanadas. When he discovered that it all needed chilling for a few hours in the fridge, Enjolras’ shoulders slumped forward as he drank his wine.

“Don’t be glum, boo,” Grantaire teased. “It just means we’ve got a few hours to do other things.”

Enjolras nodded, his face abruptly lighting up with an idea. “You’ve taught me something, so now I should teach you something,” he said, putting down his wine and holding out his hand. “Let’s dance.”

“I’ve already had dance lessons,” Grantaire reminded him, taking his hand regardless and allowing himself to be led towards the living room.

“Then show me what you’ve got,” Enjolras encouraged him. “I didn’t get to see your skills at the ball.”

“Are you okay following?” Grantaire asked, slipping his free hand under Enjolras arm, his fingers tucked uncomfortably below his shoulder blade.

Enjolras delicately placed his hand on Grantaire’s upper arm, his little and ring fingers lightly elevated and poised. “In this instance, I’ll allow it,” he said graciously.

On the next beat of the music that was still playing in the background, Grantaire moved forward on his left foot, looking down at the floor as he did so. He concentrated so hard on the music that it had the opposite effect he desired, and he fell out of time, taking the next step on the wrong foot so they both stumbled and tripped.

“Aw, fuck,” Grantaire frowned. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said gently, nudging Grantaire so he would look up. “I know it’s tempting but don’t look at the floor or you’ll get confused when you see what my feet are doing. Look straight ahead, keep your shoulders down, be a little softer in the knee, and remember to lead with your heel.”

“Okay,” Grantaire muttered, getting into his starting position and mentally repeating Enjolras’ instructions.

Ahead, down, softer, heel lead.

_Ahead, down, softer, heel lead._

As Grantaire came forward with his left foot, Enjolras quietly counted the rhythm of his steps so Grantaire didn’t have to think about it. “Slow, quick, quick. Slow, quick, quick…”

After dancing in a box step formation for a few minutes, Grantaire began to relax into it and Enjolras found he didn’t need to keep counting as it became easier for Grantaire to follow the music – though he didn’t feel ready to add in a new step when Enjolras suggested it.

“When did you first learn how to dance?” Grantaire asked.

“Almost as soon as I could walk without falling over,” Enjolras said. “When I was about four, I was having lessons with Louis, and Maman, too, since she was still learning how to dance like a Queen was expected to.”

“That’s adorable,” Grantaire laughed. “I’m just imagining a tiny you dancing on your mom’s toes as you pretend to lead her.”

“There was an element of that,” Enjolras admitted. “I was home-schooled until university so dance lessons with her and Louis were my gym classes for about ten years.”

“No wonder you’re terrible at sports,” Grantaire said, taking a risk and carefully spinning Enjolras halfway through a step. Enjolras was as graceful as a feather as he turned and fell effortlessly back into hold. “But you dance like an angel. It’s so bizarre to me that you can’t cook but you can ballroom dance. How many dances and how many recipes do you know?”

Enjolras chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought about it. “I know at least five ballroom dances at a professional level, and I now know at least half a recipe.”

“Shall we trade?” Grantaire proposed. “I’ll give you half a recipe for half a dance lesson.”

“I thought you didn’t need any lessons?” he challenged.

“And I still stand by that,” Grantaire argued. “But share and share alike, right?”

“Well, it certainly sounds like a fair swap,” Enjolras laughed. “Whilst we’re waiting for food, I think I might go for a swim. You coming?”

Grantaire smiled as he jumped up on his toes to kiss the tip of Enjolras’ nose. “How could I ever say no to you?” Following him out of the room like a Wise Man following a star, Grantaire beamed brighter than he thought possible as a delicious thought crossed his mind. “Please tell me you’ve got tiny swimming trunks.”

Raising one fair eyebrow, Enjolras smirked coquettishly. “The _tiniest._ ”

* * *

Dinner was served on the glass table that was situated on the other side of the kitchen.

Marius’ face was stuck in a perpetual state of neutrality from the sunburn that had taken over his features despite slicking himself head to toe in sun cream every hour. Cosette had changed into jean shorts and a glitzy crop top as though she were ready for a night out and was occasionally giving Marius a sympathetic pat on the back.

“This looks delicious,” she said, helping herself to two empanadas and a large portion of the wonky, chunky green salad that Enjolras had made.

Grantaire went around the table filling everyone’s glasses with the left-over wine, dropping a kiss to the top of Enjolras’ head as he went and flicking Cosette playfully on the ear. “Thanks. I had a little help though.”

“I wasn’t much use,” Enjolras insisted to Marius and Cosette. “Grantaire did most of the hard work.”

Marius took a bite of an empanada nodding, “I suppose you’re not used to hard work.”

“Excuse me?” Enjolras said, a steely silence falling over the table as Grantaire took his seat, leaning back to watch the impending showdown.

Opposite him, Cosette smirked at her brother, both knowing what was coming, and both knowing that they were going to let it happen instead of trying to stifle whatever Enjolras wanted to say. Somehow, trying to do that felt like the worst thing they could do.

“I mean…domestically,” Marius clarified. “You don’t have to do a lot…you’ve got it easy; you know?”

Enjolras picked up his glass and took a long drink from it. “Okay…please feel free to explain how I have it easy since you seem to know so much.”

Not reading the room, or willfully ignoring the tone completely, Marius carried on talking, much to the amusement of the Valjean-Fauchelevent siblings. “Well, you never have to bother with doing the dishes, or the cooking, and you’ve got everything you could possibly want at the click of a finger. You never have to campaign to be in a position of power because you and your family will always have it. You have so much influence over everyone and everything in France, and you’re going to have that for _life_ ; we’ll have it for another four years at most if we’re lucky. The King has lost his way in recent years, sure, but he’s done a lot of good for France with the resurgence of art and theatre.”

“Art and theatre that only the elite can afford to access,” Enjolras pointed out. “Can’t you hear yourself when you talk? You literally just explained a dictatorship to my face and framed it as a good thing.”

“I think you’re overexaggerating a little bit,” Marius said, looking to Cosette who was shaking her head to imply that he shouldn’t say any more. “It hardly counts as a dictatorship.”

“I’m overexaggerating?” Enjolras asked, barely blinking as Grantaire put a hand to his wrist, trying to anchor him to the table. “You don’t understand what our people have been going through under the monarchical system. You don’t have the faintest idea of what the people who work, and live, in the palace are going through with him! Look, as much as I’d love to sit here and argue with you over this, this weekend is supposed to be about Grantaire and celebrating his graduation,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting his eyelids briefly flutter closed. “I don’t want to take that away from him, but I am asking you, kindly, to really look closely at the civil unrest happening across France and the effects of the monarchy on the country. I am more than happy to listen to your opinions, listen to your suggestions, hell, even listen to your criticisms of _me_ , but not until you know the facts and you’ve done the research. If you think the King is running our country fairly and successfully, and there hasn’t been any dictator behaviour, then you’ve not been paying attention.”

The rest of dinner unfolded in a series of staccato conversations – Marius looking redder in the face minute after minute whilst Enjolras looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. Between them, Cosette and Grantaire made vague plans for an outing to a nightclub the following evening.

Once the plates were empty and the wine glasses had been drained, Enjolras made a silent point of washing the dishes by hand, though they all knew there was a dishwasher next to the sink.

“Hey,” Grantaire said quietly, taking a dish from Enjolras and drying it with a tea towel. “So, I thought that when it gets dark later, we could take a walk along the beach. I know I said we shouldn’t talk about home stuff…but I think it’s an integral part of who we are and there’s very little we can do about that…” Grantaire shrugged and put the dish away, taking the next one from Enjolras’ dripping hands. “So, let’s go for a walk and scream at the ocean about it. That always looks like fun in coming of age movies.”

Enjolras considered it for a moment and then relented, like he knew he would, with a heavy sigh. “Fuck it, okay.”

* * *

When it was nearing midnight, they walked to the beach barefoot, wearing nothing more than their shorts and t-shirts, the biting night wind nipping their cheeks and exposed skin. Walking parallel to the ocean, the soggy sand squelching between their toes, they let the saltwater gently caress the heels of their feet. They walked so close that their fingers gently brushed one another’s leaving their hands charged with something close to static electricity. Grantaire thought that if they clicked their fingers, they could set off a spark and burn the whole world to ash.

“Montparnasse said that the King is looking to tighten security again and find more aggressive ways to deal with the protestors,” Enjolras said suddenly, stopping to stare at the invisible ocean. A group of teenagers were having a bonfire further up the beach and their laughter and excited gabbling echoed towards them. “He’s discussing the next phase of crowd and damage control with Uncle Hubert. He’s also been having more meetings the Belgian King and has been in contact with the Spanish royals.”

“He’s recruiting his allies for something bigger,” Grantaire assumed, staring out at the black expanse ahead of them. “What will you do if that's the case?”

“I guess I’ll just have to figure out what he’s preparing for and prepare for it too,” Enjolras said simply. “Something is going to happen…I don’t know what or when…but _fuck_. I didn’t expect he’d be paranoid enough to tighten his defences so quickly. The King is such a powder keg...God knows what flame will set him off.”

“Even my Dad called the King a despot the other day,” Grantaire admitted. “I think World Leaders are beginning to take notice of what he’s doing to his people.”

Enjolras nodded and breathed in the sea air. “He wouldn’t have called in his brother for advice if he weren’t getting scared. He’s usually so adamant that he can control the country on his own. What are you going to do about Éponine, Thénardier and your father’s campaign?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Grantaire admitted, putting his hands in his pockets. “I definitely need to talk to Éponine though. I need to know why she betrayed us so I can move forward...it's silly but I need that closure.” He sighed and shrugged helplessly. “The campaign meant everything to me, so I don’t know what I’m going to do without it. I built my whole summer and autumn around it.”

“You’ll come up with something,” Enjolras told him. “What’s the next step to becoming a senator?”

“Well, I need to be elected to a local office and then next year, to congress.”

“Sounds like you’ve got plenty to focus on. Put your energy into your campaign.”

“I will,” Grantaire promised. “I’ll rally behind you too if you need me.”

The kids at the bonfire all screamed and laughed as someone poked an ember with a stick, sparks crackling towards them.

“I know,” Enjolras smiled, linking his arm around Grantaire’s.

Arm in arm, they began to scream into the darkness. The teenagers stared at the anonymous figures, then burst into teasing laughter, but Enjolras and Grantaire didn’t take any notice. They kept yelling into the air until their voices were lost among the waves and their throats were burning.


	15. I'll Never Wear Your Broken Crown: From the Perspective of His Royal Highness, Aurélien de France, Duke of Normandy

The alarm went off at seven, and if he laid completely motionless his half-asleep, dreamy state, he could still smell the sea in his hair and Grantaire’s cigarette smoke on his cheek. He listened to the noise outside his bedroom – staff running up and down the corridor with grace as they rushed to finish washing the floors, the windows, the hall tables, and ornaments before he opened his doors. The King insisted that all cleaning was done before the Royals emerged from their chambers, and by then, the staff should be out of sight and out of mind.

Enjolras gave them a few extra minutes, not really wanting to get up anyway, before dragging himself from the mattress to open one side of his double doors and retrieve the morning newspaper that had been left for him, as it had been every day for the last six years.

He closed the door behind him again and sat on the edge of his desk chair, absently staring out of the window as he unfolded the broadsheet. Immediately, the weighty, inked headline caught his attention.

**FREEDOM OR CHAOS?**

Below the words was a photo of a crowd, holding placards high in the air as they demanded freedom from the tyranny of the King and freedom from the rebirth of the Ancient Regime. Most of the protestors were young and angry – and rightly so. They were the people who had grown up witnessing the changes around them and the effect of it on those they loved. They were people who had seen what came before and could see the future they were hurtling towards.

Enjolras licked his index finger and turned to page 18, which had been dogeared for him, where a small note had been carefully stuck to the page with Sellotape, leaving only a flap that was just big enough for Enjolras to slip his finger under and lift.

The scrawled handwriting was hurried and slanting, ink smudged across the white page to create a note that was barely legible, although, Enjolras assumed this wasn’t intended. If it was, it certainly wasn’t a type of code they had discussed.

_CM @ 10:30pm. FF._

He licked his finger again and followed the code to page 32. He would’ve checked the page regardless of whether the signal for him to do so had been there or not. Perhaps it was a habit at this point, or perhaps it was the anxiety pushing him to check obsessively – afraid of missing something important. Another note was taped to the page and Enjolras ripped it open, reading the smudged writing under the summer light streaming through the window.

_0 in ATTNDNT + 2._

_\+ 2 HAVE PROPOSITION._

Enjolras frowned at the page and ripped the two notes from the newspaper, not caring that he was ripping the pages they were stuck to in the process.

_Plus Two?_

It was a rare addition to their hidden notes. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time where two had needed to been written. One had come up on a few occasions, as every time someone new joined them at the Café, a Plus One was added to the note, in addition to a small code to explain who they might be and who they were linked to, so he knew if they could be trusted. Most of the time, Enjolras knew they would be in attendance before the note arrived anyway. It was a mere formality.

But Plus Two was unprecedented. Even stranger was the lack of code to their identities and Enjolras’ complete confusion over this turn of events – it was rare that he had no idea what was going on. Still, he didn’t have long to think about it – all would become clear tonight and he needed to be at breakfast soon, looking as regal as was expected of him.

He stood, stretched, sent a good morning text to Grantaire, and headed straight into his en-suite for a shower, turning up the heat as far as it would go, hoping that the scent of Grantaire would disappear from his skin and bleed into the steam, hating himself for the hope all the while. But it was what was needed – his father had the nose of a bloodhound. He could smell an ant in the grass, blood in the water.

Freshly showered, hair dried in those perfect ringlets, face clean-shaven, and dressed in a powder grey suit with his first two shirt buttons undone, he tucked the newspaper under his arm and made his way to the Porcelain Dining Room. The doors were propped open and he could hear quiet chatter and the gentle clinking of cutlery as he slipped through the doors. The King and the Dauphin didn’t look at Enjolras as he took his place, setting the newspaper down under his breakfast plate.

“You’ve decided to grace us with your presence, Aurélien,” King Louis said after he'd finished his conversation with his eldest son. Enjolras had already drunk one and half cups of coffee by this time and eaten most of his breakfast; only half a croissant and three strawberries were left on his dish. “How lucky we are to finally see you. I’m shocked you’re not shirking your responsibilities in America still. I hope the trip was worth it?”

Enjolras blinked slowly and refused to buckle under the weight of the King’s disdain and Louis-Joseph’s glare. “I had a lovely time, thank you. It was interesting to see how the U.S deals with its citizens and how the First Family conducts themselves in public and in private.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Louis-Joseph asked, his moody eyes thrashing the line between iceberg blue and steel grey. “Because I’d hate to think you were trying to criticise the very people who decide whether or not you live on the streets.”

“Not at all,” Enjolras said, raising his eyebrows. “I was merely making an observation. I didn’t express any form of positivity or negativity towards their conduct, or yours. If you feel like I was making any criticisms, then that’s more of a reflection on you.”

Across the table, Louis-Joseph furrowed his brows and puckered his mouth. The King, however, was oddly silent, stirring his black coffee with great care and regarding his youngest child with an expression that would be better suited directed at a chessboard.

“For once,” he said, “Aurélien is right, Louis. He made a simple, neutral statement…apologise to your brother.”

Louis reeled in his chair and Enjolras could feel his chest tightening as he made a reluctant apology that they all knew he didn't mean.

“You’re welcome,” the Duke answered, finishing his coffee. “Where is Manon? She didn’t feel like joining us today?”

“She’s visiting her father,” he said, sneering, a vein popping from his forehead like an ugly blue worm. “Not that it’s any of your business where my wife goes or what she does.”

“Just making polite conversation,” Enjolras said, shrugging. “I imagine this will be the only time I’ll get to see you today.”

“Thankfully,” Louis muttered.

Breakfast was over in a matter of minutes, the King had already grown bored of his bickering children, dismissing them with a flick of his wrist and a stern instruction to keep the peace (directed at Enjolras) and not disturb him (directed as Louis) as he had a day of important meetings about state affairs that required his strict attention.

Combeferre met Enjolras the door as they left the dining room and took the newspaper from him, tucking it under his own arm.

“Good morning, Monseigneur,” he said. Louis was still in earshot as they walked down the corridor. “Do you have any requests for changes to your schedule today?” He pushed his glasses up his nose, revealing the blur of black ink on the side of his dark hand, so subtle you’d hardly notice it was there unless you were looking for it.

“No, thank you, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, giving a slight nod. “Everything is perfect.”

“Very good, Monseigneur,” he said, nodding too. There was a twinkle in his eye as he tapped something into his iPad. “I’ll have everything ready.”

* * *

**Worst Son of the United States**

Help me - I’m so bored! Everything is weirdly quiet over here. How are things at your end?

_I know we’re officially together now, but I still think it’s too early in the relationship for you to be asking me about my end before saying hello first…have some manners, aurélien!_

I hate you so much and I regret ever laying eyes on you.

_See, that’s a lot harder to believe now I know where your dick’s been, and we’ve slow danced to The Only Exception._

Next time you show me a recipe, I’m picking the dancing music. I know how much you like Paramore, but I still don’t think it was the best choice.

_We’re so close to breaking up right now._

I’m not saying it was bad…I’m just saying that you should consider more traditional waltzing music. You might be surprised at how good that kind of music can be sometimes. Anyway, are you deflecting again? It feels like you are. How is everything at home?

_Dad’s got me signing forms about our relationship to cover our backs in case anything happens. It’s weird putting whatever it is we’re doing under a microscope when it’s still so fresh to us._

At least he’s being supportive of you and us.

_That’s true…he could’ve been more supportive by keeping me on the campaign but…whatevs. At least he’s not your dad._

He made Louis apologise to me earlier. It was very creepy, and I don’t trust it.

_Gross. He’s definitely up to something._

That’s exactly what I thought…

Have you spoken to Éponine yet?

_Nope. I’m still so angry about it I don’t think I could talk to her without crying or yelling at her._

Fuck it - do it anyway. Let her know she’s let down both the people who voted her in and those who loved her the most.

_It’s tempting but I should focus my energy on my own campaign for a little while._

I’m excited to see what your campaign looks like. I’m especially excited to see you looking sexy in a variety of suits on the campaign trail.

_I’m that case, I’m going to raise money for the campaign by making a sexy calendar where I just get more risqué every month xoxo_

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, babe. x

* * *

Though the note said ten-thirty, the meeting was taking place at eight-thirty. It was an idea that Jehan had come up with when they first started gathering to discuss their plans, the things they'd heard around the palace, and to be friends. Friends without the constant need to be aware of their places, their class, and who outranked who. It was a time, once a week, to be people.

He had asked what would happen if their messages were intercepted one day.

“Why don’t we say we’re meeting two hours after we actually are?” he said, setting fire to a note he’d received in the finger of his gardening gloves. “That way, we’ll be long gone by the time anyone tries to come for us.” He let the paper burn as close to fingers as possible, ash falling at his feet, before dropping the flaming end into a glass of red wine.

Flying up the stairs of the Café Musain, Enjolras called out a hurried good evening to Madame Houcheloup, who smiled fondly and carried on sweeping the floor, pretending to accidentally whack Bahorel on the ankles with the broom. He laughed and blew her a kiss, continuing to follow his wayward charge.

“Sorry we’re late!” Enjolras called out, turning into the upstairs back room, immediately stopping in the doorway as he saw a familiar dark figure lounging in his chair, his feet up on the table. Bahorel ran into the back of Enjolras which only served to make the figure laugh.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” Enjolras asked, looking at Combeferre and Courfeyrac with a cocked eyebrow.

The figure grinned and dropped his feet to the floor – perhaps easier said than done in his tight black jeans. “You should know I’m on your side by now,” Montparnasse said, too cocky and sure of himself for Enjolras’ liking. He chewed on his gum noisily, putting Feuilly on edge as he scooted away from him so Bahorel could sit between them.

“We’ve got an idea and we thought you might be interested,” said another figure from the corner of the room. Claquesous, Montparnasse’s personal protection officer, was so hidden in the shadows, you wouldn’t have noticed him until you got too close to Montparnasse, and by then, it would be too late for you anyway.

“Let’s hear them out,” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras before he could protest. “The more royals we have on our side, maybe the easier all this will be?”

Enjolras finally sat down when Montparnasse kicked out the chair opposite him. The two princes stared one another down, neither wanting to back away first. As Montparnasse chewed his gum and stared, still grinning, he tilted his head in a way that reminded Enjolras of a snake.

“Well?” Enjolras said impatiently. “Give us a good reason for you to be here.”

“There’s a radical Republican group called The Children of Liberty,” Montparnasse said, leaning forward. His new leather jacket crinkled and squeaked with every tiny movement.

Combeferre nodded, looking somewhat bored having already dealt with Montparnasse and Claquesous’ dramatic and arrogant personas for the past twenty minutes. “Yes, we’re aware of who they are.”

“Did you know that they’re planning to storm the Bastille and seize the weapons the King has housed there?” he sat back in his chair again, smirking as the others looked at one another, a mixture of confusion, concern, and mild excitement plastered on their faces and settling over the atmosphere. “I didn’t think so,” he said, looking at Enjolras’ frown with a smirk.

“How do _you_ know that?” Jehan asked, somehow looking both tiny under his vintage shirt with billowing sleeves, and ten-foot-tall with the Romantic confidence it gave him.

“Enjolras might have eyes and ears in the palace,” Montparnasse said easily, shrugging nonchalantly and sticking his gum to the underside of the table. “But I have eyes and ears in the streets and in the underbelly of France. You know…where the real action happens.”

“How can we trust what you’re saying is true?” Enjolras asked, lifting his chin and eyeing Montparnasse with grave suspicion.

“How can anyone here trust _you_?” Montparnasse countered. “You can’t prove absolute loyalty to the public without blowing your whole operation. Your friends can’t prove that you’re not feeding information back to the King. They can’t prove you’re not going to betray them.” His eyes glittered with malevolence. “Just look at your boyfriend…hadn't he spend years working alongside Éponine? Trying to do good in the world, being her friend, and aspiring to be like her, only for her to betray him without a word of warning?”

The air was sapped of its warmth as a chilling wind whistled through the antique windows and through the cracks in the floorboards. Feuilly pulled his cardigan tightly over his frame as Bahorel shifted his weight on the chair, making the wooden boards beneath him bow and moan.

“How do you know about that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I do read the news and keep up with international affairs, you know,” Montparnasse answered, a smug smile playing on his cherry mouth.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Enjolras snapped, tightening his fist on his lap so he wouldn’t bang it on the table like his father did when he grew irate.

Montparnasse shrugged. “I’m not as stupid or as willfully ignorant as the rest of the family. Frankly, I’m glad you’ve found someone who’s actually a good match for you,” he admitted. “Princess Josephine is a bore and as much as I enjoy seeing you unhappy and pissed off, seeing you forced into a loveless marriage isn’t as satisfying as riling you up like this. In the right circumstances, you and Grantaire could be quite the formidable double act.”

He hated it but Enjolras could feel his cheeks and chest flushing, and he could see that Montparnasse knew it too. “That’s all well and good,” Enjolras said, clearing his throat, “but let’s get to the point of why you’re here, shall we? What’s the proposition?”

“How would you like to join the Children of Liberty for a day?” Claquesous asked, making everybody sit a little straighter and breathe a little quieter.

“What do you mean?” Feuilly pondered aloud. “How?”

“We join the storming of the Bastille and we take direct action,” Montparnasse said simply. “All you need is one codeword to prove you stand with them…you should all be familiar with codewords by now.”

Combeferre raised his hand to eye-level. “The two of you would be recognised. If the Children of Liberty discovered that two of the princes had infiltrated their ranks, then who knows what might happen? The danger is too great.”

“Obviously, disguises are in order for the most recognisable of us,” Montparnasse agreed. “Héloïse has picked up plenty of style and make-up tips from little Cosette’s blog…I’m sure she can help us sufficiently alter our appearances.”

“What’s going to happen to the weapons if they’re successfully seized?” Jehan asked.

“As they’re the King’s weapons and those of his army, they're symbols of the rising Police State, so they will be destroyed. The goal is to dump the bullets and gunpowder in the Seine and then burn the weapons themselves on a pyre,” Claquesous explained.

“That’s the goal,” Montparnasse agreed, “but the reality might be vastly different when the King discovers what’s happening and instructs the police to follow.”

“And how will getting involved in that help us and what we’re trying to do? Will it be worth putting my best friend in danger?” Courfeyrac asked, the others nodding their quiet agreement. Enjolras flashed a thankful look in his direction.

Montparnasse seemed bored already as he launched into his explanation, clearly thinking this conversation would have been easier than it was, and everyone would agree with him immediately. He was used to people doing that. “Because you’ll be doing something more than writing anonymous think-pieces online. Whether or not they manage to successfully seize the weapons, this is going to be a massive catalyst for change and the Republican movement. You’ll finally be doing something in the streets, fighting side-by-side with the very people you’re trying to help instead of focusing your attention on undermining the King from within the palace walls.”

A silent conversation was had between the usual members of the group, each of them raising their eyebrows, shrugging their shoulders, and giving gentle inclines of their head as Montparnasse thoroughly inspected the state of his pristine fingernails.

When a collective decision had been made, Enjolras stood and held out his arm, his face steeled and determined. “What’s the codeword?”

Montparnasse grinned and slowly raised himself from his chair, towering a few inches above his older cousin. He grabbed his arm, so they were both holding one another by the elbows in a show of unity and trust, but gripping one another tightly so they might feel just a fraction of the pain that was to come should one betray the other.

“Marianne,” he said, enunciating every syllable with glee.

* * *

Slipping through the crowd alongside Combeferre and Courfeyrac with Bahorel close behind, Enjolras searched for Jehan and Feuilly, feeling deathly warm in his black hoodie, heavy boots, and the short brown wig made from human hair that Montparnasse had procured. When pressed, he refused to say where the wig, or the hair, had come from.

After letting his weak stubble grow out, and some careful make-up tricks to give him softer cheekbones and a sharper nose, Enjolras looked almost unrecognisable. If anyone were going to recognise him, it would be because of his piercing eyes…but so many people had blue eyes, he still might have been anyone.

They arrived late so it was easier for them to blend in, but by the time they had, the police had already been deployed and were surrounding the Bastille, riot shields up, and unsuccessfully pushing back the sizeable crowd. Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac looked at one another with a look of disbelief and let out short, sharp laughs before remembering who they were, where they were, and what they were there to do. They knew that the Children of Liberty were growing in number, but they didn’t know that there would be this many.

It was like being at the back of a stadium concert rather than in the middle of a Parisian street, marching forward on the tide of change. Still, they moved forward with their eyes high and their voices loud. Without their phones, it was hard to navigate their way towards each other, but they managed to find Feuilly and Jehan when Enjolras spotted a placard in Feuilly’s leaning handwriting.

“Where’s Mont?” Jehan asked, standing on his tiptoes to see over the heads and signs of the people in front of him.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admitted, “but he’ll have his eyes on us for sure. We’ll bump into him eventually.”

Before they knew it, Montparnasse, in the same outfit as Enjolras except for a torn denim jacket over his hoodie and a ginger wig, was within touching distance; Claquesous diligently by his side. Peppered into the swarm, a few metres away from them was Babet, Gueulemer, and Brujon, keeping their heads low and their ears open, but for what at this stage, no one could say.

All at once, the crowd erupted into cheering as a slight woman managed to slip through the wall of police as they tried to control the unfurling chaos on the front line. The woman, knowing time was of the essence, was beginning to climb the imposing Bastille gates – a landscaping eyesore that had been erected after the original stone walls had been torn down following the first attempt on the Bastille’s life in 1789.

When the police finally realised what was happening, it was too late. She dropped over the other side of the bars and fell with cat-like grace and precision in the courtyard, then, to the surprise of most, she removed an angle grinder from her rucksack. The police jerked further into the crowd as the grinder’s wail and the screech of metal on metal began to echo through the streets. Bright orange sparks spat and flew until a bar was removed; she quickly threw it behind her lest the police tried to wrestle it from her grasp.

With their shields in hand and their bulky, heavy protective gear on their backs, the police were unable to squeeze through the gap the woman had created, not without leaving themselves unarmed and unprotected anyway.

A boy, no more than sixteen, saw a weakening in both the law enforcement’s resolve and their human wall, and on his hand and knees, dove between it, clambering through the gap and kicking wildly as an officer grabbed him around the ankle. From the other side, the woman with the angle grinder held it towards the offending hand and switched it on. The noise and the breeze from the blade were enough to make him release his grip, leaving the boy to flop on the ground on the other side.

After that, everything happened in a righteous, chaotic blur.

More people began to take advantage of the police’s few numbers in comparison to the Children of Liberty's large presence, and more began to fight their way through the gap in the bars, the woman with the angle grinder keeping the police back with her weapon of choice. As the crowd became smaller on the outside of the Bastille, the police broke forth into the throng, doing what they could to send protestors to the ground, either by shield, by shoulder, or by fist. When that was not adequately subduing them, they began spewing pepper spray with reckless abandon.

“Keep close to me!” Bahorel instructed to his friends, holding out his arms so no-one could go beyond where he could easily grab them. Following the group as they surged forward, Enjolras kept scanning his surroundings – an officer only metres away from them now. He made eye-contact with him and then snapped his head away as the officer began to fight his way towards them.

“On your right, Bahorel!” Enjolras called, jumping to Bahorel’s left side and towards Combeferre and Courfeyrac who huddled him close.

Seeing the approaching menace from somewhere unseen nearby, Claquesous pushed past everyone in his way, shielding his eyes as he went and using his elbows to their full advantage. Abandoned, Montparnasse shrugged and flipped another cop’s riot shield, so he tumbled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Jehan and Feuilly, smaller than the others and less likely to be able to smack a cop without being bested straight after, looked between their friends and the gaps between the people leading towards the Bastille. They nodded at one another and ran towards the bars.

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac called into the heavy wind, watching his braided hair bounce on his shoulders as he ran into the distance without looking back. “Jehan, stop!”

“Feuilly!” Enjolras shouted, making a break to go after him, but Combeferre held him back, muttering into his ear that it was safer to let them go. On hearing Feuilly’s name, Bahorel stopped fighting to give a panicked look in his direction, leaving himself open to be punched in the jaw by the officer he had been trying to keep back.

In response, Claquesous jumped to his defence, immediately using the shield against the officer as Montparnasse had done. When the cop was on the floor, he pressed his foot into his shoulder, pinning him to the floor so the others could run towards the Bastille.

They didn’t get far.

A set of fingers touched Claquesous’ shoulders and flashing faster than lightning on a wire, he threw his fist towards the offender’s face, knocking him to the ground with the pop of a nose and the crack of a head hitting the pavement. The world stood still as they watched the man’s eyes close, his placard fluttering on the floor beside him.

Rage swelled behind Enjolras’ eyes and he broke from Combeferre’s strong grip, barrelling straight into Claquesous and slamming him into a lamppost, the police officer forgotten.

“That was an innocent civilian!” he screamed, finding the energy and power to pin him to the post with one hand and punch him across the cheek with the other, enjoying the sound of his head bouncing off the metal. “You could’ve killed him!”

Enjolras struck Claquesous again, in the stomach and the ribs this time, a snarl on his pretty mouth as Claquesous tried to push him away, kicking a strong leg and using one hand to grab his wig and pull.

“Get him out of here, Bahorel!” Combeferre yelled, kneeling beside the civilian and pulling the emergency medical kit from his bag. “Bahorel! Feuilly will be fine – get Enjolras out of here before he kills Claquesous!”

The conflicted look on Bahorel’s face didn’t last long as he glanced between Enjolras and the Bastille. He ran to Enjolras, scooping him away from Claquesous as though he were nothing more than a bag of flour and carried him away from the descending throng, trying to keep as much of Enjolras’ tell-tale blonde hair hidden as possible.

Courfeyrac followed Jehan and Feuilly into the Bastille, the smell of smoke on the air as the pyre was lit in the courtyard. Combeferre tended to the injured civilian, one of many, and Claquesous ran in the opposite direction, leaving them all behind. As Bahorel and Enjolras rounded the corner, it suddenly occurred to them that Montparnasse and the rest of his gang could not be accounted for. They had disappeared like salt thrown into the sea long ago.

* * *

They arrived back at the palace late and, miraculously, with minimal injuries.

To begin with, Bahorel and Enjolras watched the rest of the Storming unfold from the small television in Feuilly’s apartment - neither of them daring to go to the palace until their friends had come back too. Combeferre had been the next to return, blood under his nails and his eyes red and watering from the pepper spray, informing them the civilian was concussed but would recover.

On the news, the three of them could see the army being deployed to stop the chaos at the Bastille and the firefighters to safely stop the blaze that was still burning strong.

Courfeyrac had brought Jehan and Feuilly back to the apartment half an hour later, all of them bruised, a little bloodied, and covered in scratches, cuts, red marks, and bruises where officers had thrown them the floor. But other than that, they were safe, and the Children of Liberty had destroyed more than half of the King’s weapons before the whole operation was shut down.

The image of people crowded around the Seine, throwing boxes into the murky water and other dancing around the pyre would stay with them forever.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel, freshly showered and changed, quietly snuck through Versailles’ corridors, keeping their voices low as they entered Enjolras’ bedroom, ready for sleep. Enjolras was eager to tell Grantaire that he was fine, knowing full well there would be missed calls and unread texts waiting for him as Grantaire sat halfway across the ocean, watching, and worrying. Perhaps it hadn't been the best idea to tell him what he was doing, but, oh well.

When the doors swung open, they stopped their adrenaline-fueled laugher and chatter. They felt as if the floor had been pulled out from under their tired feet, and for Enjolras, this was somewhat true.

He briefly saw the sparkle of a cold diamond and the heavy weight of a gold signet ring and then felt a blow across his face that made him fall to his knees. A white flash, a mix of dull and sharp pains across his brow and cheek, and then, drop of blood splashing on to the carpet and the back of his hand.

Bahorel leapt forward to help him up, but the King bellowed him back into place.

“You don’t get to protect him here!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips, his face a deep crimson. “You work for _me_ , not him! I pay you to protect him on the outside, not here on the inside. Whatever happens to him in these walls is well-deserved and between us and God!”

No one dared to speak or move, all their faces draining of colour. Finally, Enjolras looked up at his father from the floor, wiping away the blood caught in his eyelashes.

“I’ll gladly keep taking your beatings,” he told him calmly, staring him in the eyes. “Because every time you put energy into knocking me down, it takes energy away from the knockdowns you give the public.”

The King pulled back his shoulders and flexed his fingers before striking him again – this time across the mouth, splitting open his bottom lip so blood dribbled down his chin. “You ought to know when to be quiet by now,” he said easily stepping away from his son and squaring up to Combeferre instead. “I expected better from you. You’re supposed to keep him in line, not let him lead you astray.”

“He’s his own man!” Enjolras cried, spitting blood at his father.

Spinning on his heel, the King held his hand up to Enjolras again, his eyes burning with hatred. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, boy?!”

As Enjolras lifted his face to his hand, the King suddenly stopped and smiled. Saccharine and sickening. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish, beginning to wipe the drying blood from his rings. “If you’re leading your friends astray and they want to disobey me too…” he said slowly, “Combeferre, Bahorel, your services are no longer required. I want you both out of the palace by morning. And take that gardener friend of yours with you…count yourselves lucky that I’m not throwing you all in jail with the rest of the treasonous nobodies we caught at that little charade!”

Enjolras closed his eyes and hung his head in shame, his fingers curling into the thick pile of the carpet.

Satisfied that his message had been clearly understood and heeded, the King began to stride out of the room. As he left, his attention was caught by the framed photograph of Marguerite on the wall. He prised it from the hook with a steady hand and looked at it with a face of stone before dropping it to the floor.

“That bitch can go too,” he said with finality, stamping on the glass until it was dust, and then flying from the deathly silent room.

* * *

“You lost your jobs,” Enjolras said hoarsely, his head tilted at an angle so Combeferre could clean the blood from his face and inspect the irregular gash above his eyebrow. He hadn’t realised how dizzy the blows had made him until Combeferre and Bahorel had to help him up by the underarms and practically drag him to his bed.

“We knew it was something that might happen one day,” Combeferre said with a shrug. “We’ll be okay.”

“We’ll never stop being your friend,” Bahorel assured him from the floor, trying to clean up the blood that had dried into the carpet. “And I know I don’t speak for ‘Ferre or Jehan…but…even if we don’t work here…we won’t stop protecting you where we can.”

Combeferre smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, …we'll still protect you. I’m sorry we couldn’t do so here…I just didn’t know what to do or say…”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras told him. “It’s better that you did nothing…if you had, he would’ve been much angrier, you know that. I just don’t understand how he knew we were there....”

“Maybe Montparnasse betrayed us,” Bahorel suggested. “He’s not on our side or theirs – he’s only out for himself. Maybe the King and his brother offered him something for what he knew about the Storming?”

“For now, it doesn’t matter how he knew,” Combeferre said, getting another alcohol wipe from his medical kit so he could clean Enjolras’ lip and chin. “He knows. We just need to find out how much he knows so we can plan for the future. It’s going to be a lot harder now…but I know we can do it.” He paused to reinspect the wound on Enjolras’ head with a frown. “I think that’s going to need a stitch or two. Ideally, I’d want to use steri-strips, but I ran out after he…” he paused to sigh. “Well, you were there…I suppose I don’t need to remind you. Do you mind if I…?”

Enjolras waved a hand. “No, it’s fine. Go for it.”

From the bedside table, Enjolras’ phone began to ring, buzzing closer to the edge of the table. The contact image and name flashed bright and Combeferre glanced at it as he prepped the instruments from his suturing kit. (He knew the King wouldn't allow Enjolras to go to the hospital tonight, so this was the next best thing, even if the pain would be barely tolerable.) Grantaire’s contact image – him laughing on Miami Beach, beer in hand with a sun-soaked face – faded as the phone fell silent.

“Have you told him that the King does this to you yet?” Combeferre asked, keeping his hands steady as Enjolras recoiled when the needle pierced his skin.

“No,” he admitted, taking a deep breath through his nose, glad he was at such an angle that he couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. “I’ve hinted at it a few times…but he didn’t even realise I was gay and into him until I kissed him, so I don’t think he’s picked up on the nuance.”

“You should tell him,” Bahorel said gently, giving up on the blood stains and turning his attention to saving the photograph of Marguerite instead. “He’ll understand.”

“He’ll understand too much,” Enjolras argued, squeezing his eyes shut as Combeferre put in the last stitch. “He’ll want me to leave…and I can’t do that just yet.”

“All done,” Combeferre announced, putting down his tools. “Be careful,” he added as Enjolras stumbled off the bed to look at his puffy, bruised face. His mouth was bloomed in purple whilst his browbone looked relatively normal, though he suspected the bruising would be incredible in the morning. The stitches were neat against his eyebrow and the cut would heal nicely.

“Keep them dry and look out for any signs of infection,” Combeferre said. “They should dissolve within the week.”

Enjolras smiled but winced as pain ran over his mouth. “You should go back to being a doctor,” he said, his fat bottom lip muffling his words. “You could probably do a lot more good there than here, cleaning up my fights.”

“Maybe,” Combeferre said. “But I can do both if I want to, and I do. Although, I’ve always liked the idea of being a teacher,” he mused. “It’s almost the perfect opportunity to go back to studying, isn't it?”

“Enjolras,” Bahorel interrupted, handing him the battered photograph of him and his mother. “If this _was_ Montparnasse’s doing…he knows about you and Grantaire...What if he…”

Nodding, Enjolras blinked back tears, folding the picture and placing it in his trouser pocket. “I know…” he said quietly. He knew it would have to happen as soon as he saw the diamond out of the corner of his eye – he just hadn't wanted to think about it. “I just... _fuck_ , we had such a good time together in Miami…he wanted to teach me how to make his Dad’s enchiladas…” He took a deep breath and hiccupped, wrapping his arms around himself. “We didn’t get enough time together…”

“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre said, shaking his head. “We should’ve planned today better to stop this from happening.”

“You can’t predict everything,” Enjolras told him. “I couldn’t predict that I would…that I would fall in lo-“ he stopped to hiccup again and gave up trying to finish the sentence. He could never say the words to Grantaire anyway, so why bother saying them now? “I couldn’t predict that I’d have to let him go so soon…”

Bahorel and Combeferre instantly swarmed him for a hug, only for Enjolras to push them away and wipe away his own tears. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Now, let’s get you guys packed. You both have somewhere to stay I take it?”

“I’ll go to Courfeyrac’s with Jehan,” Combeferre told him, packing away his medical kit. “It won’t be permanent but at least it’ll give me plenty of time to find somewhere else.”

“And I’ll move in with Feuilly,” Bahorel said. “It’s about time we did that,” he added, grinning sheepishly for the briefest moment.

Enjolras nodded, looking between his friends and doing his best to keep the tears at bay, which was much harder to do when his phone began to ring again – Grantaire’s smiling face making Enjolras’ heart ache more than any strike from his father could.

He turned away from the phone and took a deep, slow, cleansing breath, throwing his arms around Bahorel and Combeferre’s shoulders. “Let’s get packing, shall we? We’d better not keep the King waiting.”


	16. Advice from Fantine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to preface this by saying that I do not know much about American politics, and I do not know if what happens in this chapter is allowed...but it's an AU and I'm going with it...! :D

It was already ten o’clock and Grantaire hadn’t emerged from his bedroom – not for coffee, nor for a cigarette, nor for food. It was a routine that had played itself out day after day for almost a week. Not even Valjean could coax him out, which left him with a heavy heart and brow as he went about his day, trying to balance being President and a concerned father without dropping the ball on either role.

“I’ll try again,” Cosette said to their father that morning, pouring an extra cup of coffee. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll tag you in once more,” she added more cheerfully than she felt.

Valjean just gave her a small smile and a sigh as she walked towards Grantaire’s room. When he didn’t answer her knock, she walked in regardless.

“Come on, you can’t hide in here forever,” she said, pulling the duvet covers from Grantaire’s face and placing the fresh, hot coffee on the side table. “Nobody is going to vote for you when you won’t get out of bed and put yourself out there."

Grantaire hadn’t shaved in almost two weeks, giving him a rugged quality that was matched by his unruly hair. He tried pulling the covers back over himself but Cosette wrestled them away and shuffled on to the bed next to him, kicking empty cans of soda, beer, and piles unwashed clothes as she went.

“You’re scaring me and Dad, you know?” she said gently. “We’ve not seen you like this for a long time.”

This made Grantaire sit up, reluctantly, and take in his sister’s exhausted face. She’d been waking up earlier and going to bed later, all so she had time to post on her blog, work on her guest articles for Vanity Fair, help her father out with the election campaign, spend time with Marius and Fantine to discuss vague wedding plans, go to the gym, and try to cajole Grantaire from the shell he’d created for himself. Her skin had lost its dewy glow, and her eyes seemed to be more sunken and darker, which only served to make Grantaire feel worse.

“Sorry,” he said running his hands through his greasy hair. “It’s not as bad as it was…I’m just…overwhelmed and confused, I guess.”

Cosette nodded and put a warm, comforting hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know. It’s been a wild six months for you…especially the last few weeks.”

“Do you know what hurts the most?” Grantaire said, picking up the coffee mug just for something to do with his unusually restless hands. “It’s not that he’s stopped talking to me, stopped answering my calls, ignored all my texts and emails…it’s not that we might not get to have another weekend like Miami…or the fact I haven’t heard his voice for two weeks…it’s the fact that I still don’t know if it’s over. How am I supposed to know for sure?” he asked with a shrug. “He didn’t say it was over…but he won’t talk to me so I can ask. When I do ask, I get no answer.”

“Maybe he’s just busy?” Cosette suggested. “I mean, the Storming of the Bastille and the Children of Liberty…all of that is bound to make the royals shy away from everyone for a while. Plus, they’re probably stepping up security and he wants to make sure your relationship stays a secret.”

Grantaire took a gulp of his coffee and chewed on his lip. “There’s more to it than that.”

“How do you know that if he won’t talk to you?”

“Because he was there,” he blurted out. “He went to the Storming and now I can’t get hold of him or any of his friends. What if something happened to them? You saw the videos…”

Cosette’s shoulders slumped forward as she recalled the images of the pyre being doused out, civilians being blasted with a mix of water cannons and pepper spray, the videos of targeted police brutality shared thousands of times online and broadcast on the news. A chill came over her. “If anything had happened to him, the media would’ve said something. They eat that kind of shit up.”

Scratching at his neck with one hand and balancing his mug on his knee in the other, Grantaire shook his head. “Something bad happened to Queen Marguerite, but the King covered that up…who’s to say that won’t happen to Enjolras or his friends?”

“Look, I don’t know what happened to the Queen, or to Enjolras, or to his friends, but I do know what’s happening to my brother and I miss him.” Cosette squeezed his arm again and dropped a kiss to his shoulder. “Let’s drum up some buzz for your local office campaign to take your mind off things.”

Grantaire shook his head again. “I don’t really feel like,” he admitted. “I don’t see the point right now, to be honest. Like…over the past few weeks, getting involved in politics has felt like a pointless endeavour.”

Frowning, Cosette took his hand and brushed his knuckles with her thumb. “Don’t ever say that. That’s not you.”

“Except that it is,” he insisted, putting his coffee on the table so he could gesticulate wildly. “Éponine’s gone and thrown her principles away, abandoned everything for influence and money, Dad’s thrown me off the election campaign, Thénardier gets closer to being the Republican nominee every day, my boyfriend fucking left me without a word as his country and the people that despise him sets the city ablaze. He can’t let the public know he’s on their side, and he can’t let his father know either because the King is becoming increasingly tyrannical and more of a dictator every time he opens his mouth. It’s just fucking depressing, and no-one can do anything about any of it, let alone me. What will me getting involved in politics achieve? I can’t bring Éponine back, I can’t give Dad another term, I can’t help with the toppling the monarchy…what’s the point? I can’t do the things I want to the most.”

“Right, that’s it,” Cosette announced, leaping off the bed and tugging at Grantaire’s arm. “It's time to get up. Take a shower, sort out your face because that beard is fucking horrible, and put on some clean clothes. We’re going out whether you like it or not.” She gave him a final rough tug, so he fell out of bed, his shoulder smacking into the bedside table.

“Jesus Christ,” he complained, lying on the floor without moving, his hair falling pathetically over his face. “Where are we going?”

“To see the queen of being ghosted,” she said, going to Grantaire’s wardrobe to pull out clean jeans and a t-shirt, throwing them on his limp body. “Mom has been itching for you to visit her.”

* * *

Fantine’s apartment sat above the haberdashery in which she worked most days. Part-time, she pulled shifts as a waitress, usually taking night shifts. Despite her busy schedule, the apartment was bright and clean – her copious house plants in perfect condition. A potted ivy sat on top of her bookshelf, the leaves cascading down the side and caressing the wood. The whole apartment had the homely scent of chocolate chip cookies, fresh linen, and jasmine furniture polish.

When Fantine’s back was turned in the living room-cum-kitchenette, Grantaire rearranged her multi-coloured, multi-patterned scatter cushions so he could comfortably lean back on the sofa. He hated to admit it, but he did feel marginally better now he'd showered and shaved.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Fantine asked, turning to them with a tray of cookies and three glasses of warm milk. She placed the tray on the coffee table and perched in her armchair. “You’ve not been here for a while, Grantaire. What made you finally come and visit?”

“I made him,” Cosette interjected before he had time to respond. She took a cookie from the plate and dunked it into her glass of milk. “He’s got boy trouble that he needs to talk out.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but knowing he couldn’t get away from this conversation, he gave in. “I was seeing someone…we were having a great time together and I thought we were going somewhere,” he admitted with a sad shrug. “But he suddenly left me without a word.”

“I see why Cosette brought you to me,” Fantine said, smiling kindly and pushing the tray of cookies further towards Grantaire.

“I don’t know how you managed it,” Grantaire said, taking a cookie and nibbling on the edge. It was warm, sweet, and soft, immediately making his mouth tingle with joy. “Like…I’m so angry and confused and, bluntly, heartbroken, and you did it all with a _baby_ on your hip and so much other shit on top of that too.”

Fantine smiled at her daughter, then at her de facto son with a sympathetic air. “It was hard,” she admitted. “I had a future I'd imagined and planned out, then suddenly, it wasn’t there anymore. As devastated as I was, I didn’t have a lot of time to focus on my broken heart until much later – looking after Cosette and finding a cheaper place to live came first. You’re feeling the heartbreak much earlier than I did, and I honestly can’t say whether that’s better or worse,” she admitted apologetically. “But I know everything will turn out okay in the end because, like me, you’ve got your Dad and Cosette to help you through it.”

Letting the soggy end of his cookie fall into his milk, he sighed, staring as it bubbled and sank. “I spoke to Dad and he chucked me off the campaign, remember?”

“If you’re not together anymore, he might put you back on the campaign,” Cosette argued.

“I don’t want to bother him again by talking about my relationship drama,” Grantaire frowned. “He’s busy enough without me whining in his ear about my love life or how unfair I think the world is, or how I feel like I’m having an existential breakdown.”

Fantine nodded slowly and tucked her luscious, cookie-scented hair behind her ears. “I get that. I mean, your Dad was Mayor when Felix left us, and I found talking to him difficult at first because I didn’t think he’d have time for struggling, single teen mom’s like me,” she said casually. “I thought he had bigger things to think about like opening new community centres, working with the council, and God knows what else…”

“So why did you go to him if you thought he was too busy to talk to you?” Grantaire asked.

“Well…I guess I realised I was over-thinking things and it was better than bottling it up, especially since I had no one else to go to. I saw how involved he was in the community and how much he cared about every individual person. He always stopped to talk to you and offer a kind word, he always remembered the little things about people. Confiding in your Dad is tied for the best thing I ever did,” she said, smiling wistfully at Cosette who gave her a reassuring smile back. “Your dad is probably the kindest and most reassuring man I’ve ever met, you saw that the first time you ever met him, didn’t you?”

Grantaire smiled from the corner of his mouth. The taste of sweet orange juice appeared on the back of his tongue as he thought about that day. “Yeah, I did.”

“Well then,” Fantine said simply. “He will always be your dad first and foremost, and he will always be the man who looks after the people in his community. I can guarantee you that he’d rather be burdened, for lack of a better word, with your problems than knowing you’re in pain or feeling sad and keeping it hidden.”

“I suppose…” Grantaire said reluctantly. “I just…there’s so much swimming in my head and so much I want to articulate but can’t.”

“Maybe you could paint it out?” Cosette suggested. “Or get back into the political sphere where righteous anger at injustices and sympathy for others would be welcome.”

“No,” Grantaire snapped. “No, I want everything to go back to the way it was – Éponine back and…Enjolras back,” he said, figuring it was safe to say his name in front of Fantine. “If I can’t have that, I want answers and closure from them both or I’m just going to spend weeks thinking about why they left again and again.”

“You don’t always get closure on life or people, honey,” Fantine said compassionately. “Sometimes people do things you or they can’t explain, and you just have to know when to accept it and leave well enough alone because it won’t do you any good to dwell. Know your worth and don’t spend time thinking about people who will drop you like a child’s toy.”

“It’s not that easy though,” Grantaire pouted, putting his milk on the table. “A little while ago, Enjolras asked me to…get involved with, and help him, with something…and I never got to do it…but I still want to. Like…I _desperately_ want to help him where I can because I care about him and I care about the situation he was in. I can’t suddenly stop thinking about it and let it go.”

Cosette smiled and stretched her legs out, much like a child in a seat that was too high would. “But that’s why you went into politics, right? When you care about something, you _really_ fucking care about it. You want to help people more than you want to help you, most of the time.”

At this, Grantaire wrinkled his nose and went to reach for his cigarettes but Fantine glared at him. She explicitly forbade smoking at her place, and that's why he told himself he didn't visit often. Instead, he put his elbow on the arm of the couch and placed his head in his hand, trying to organise his thoughts and feelings like he was building a domino rally – no sooner had he got some pieces in the right place, he managed to knock them down again.

“I promised to rally behind him,” he said finally, not looking up from the arm of the sofa. He pushed the heel of his hand against his eye.

“Sweetheart, you can’t help everyone,” Fantine said gently. “Especially not those who ignore you and cut off communication. How are you supposed to help anyone if they won’t let you? Look, I don’t know if this is what you want to hear, I’m going to guess not, but I think Cosette is right and you should be getting back into the political sphere. You’ll be able to help more people than Éponine and Enjolras whilst making a bigger difference to your community and America. Before all this – before them – what issues were you passionate about? What change did you want to bring about?”

Grantaire ground his teeth and nodded at himself as he thought about it. As he thought about all the things he had been determined to do in the era he now mentally referred to as _Before Enjolras_. Not that he ever stopped thinking about them _After Enjolras_ , but they felt like issues he’d always have time for, whereas Enjolras’ anti-monarchist agenda felt more pressing, especially with the public’s increasing anger and restlessness.

“I want to create a better child welfare and foster care system,” he began. “I want to invest more in community centres and continue improving support and policies that protect migrants and refugees.” He finally lifted his head from his hand and winced at the light. “I want every LGBTQIA person to feel safe and accepted and for them to know the government, and the resources they need will always be there for them when they’re discriminated against or abused. I want to keep helping Dad with prison and policing reform. I want to explore and implement different energy sources to reduce our carbon footprint.”

With every word, Grantaire could feel himself becoming bolder. “I want to make academics more accessible and put more funding into the arts and help more women and girls get into STEM subjects...and _so much more_ , Fantine. So much more.”

“There’s my brother,” Cosette muttered happily, beaming a toothy grin as Grantaire gently nudged into her side.

“Is all that worth giving up on because you got your heart broken?” Fantine asked.

Grantaire shook his head and bit his lip, a question playing on his mind that he was sure would offend Fantine, or Cosette, or both if he asked. Still, his mouth let the words tumble out clumsily. “Didn’t you give up on Cosette though?”

“Never,” she said firmly, flashing Cosette a sure smile and looking at her with sincere eyes. “Not once did I give up on her and I’m still not giving up,” he assured him, though, it was mostly for Cosette’s benefit.

She gave her mother a smile that said, ‘ _I know._ ’

“I had to give Cosette to someone who could look after her like she deserved. For me to have been her primary carer at that time would’ve been irresponsible,” Fantine explained. “I wasn't ready to be a single mom. Hell, I wasn't emotionally, physically, or financially able to be a mom, single or otherwise, and I had to let her be fostered so she could have the life she deserved. Maybe that is giving up in some people’s eyes…but I was just a kid myself.“

Cosette sat forward on the sofa, shaking her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “It’s not giving up, Mom. It’s admitting that you need help…Grantaire, sometimes you need to ask for help more often. Asking for help and support isn’t giving up and it never will be…”

“I know getting your heart broken sucks,” Fantine continued, “but you can’t give up on all those brilliant dreams you have for yourself and your community. You can ask for help, especially if you feel like you’re spiralling again, and the hurt won’t last forever.”

The scent of cookies had finally dissipated through the open window and Grantaire took a deep breath, pushing back the wobble in his voice. “Dad said this would be forever whether we stayed together or not…but I didn’t realise how much I wanted a forever _with_ him until he was gone.”

Getting up from her armchair without further prompting, Fantine crossed the four steps between them and nestled herself on the sofa between Cosette and Grantaire, immediately pulling him in for a tight hug, stroking his hair. “You’ll find a new forever,” she said softly, letting Cosette lean heavily against her other side. “Take some time to be sad, talk to your Dad, or Cosette, or me if you need some support with whatever’s going on in that precious head of yours,” she paused to kiss his temple, “and always find hope to cling to. It’s one of the most important things we have. Plus, I get you. Men are terrible, and I curse the fact I’m attracted to them daily.”

From somewhere deep in his grief, Grantaire snorted a laugh, trying not to think too hard about the way Enjolras would snort when he laughed too. “I know that feeling,” he said, smiling into her shoulder. “God, thanks for listening to my disconnected rambles…I really do wish you were my mom sometimes.”

From beside Fantine, Cosette dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her blue cardigan. Noticing, Fantine threw an arm over her shoulder and pressed another firm kiss to Grantaire's head. “How many times do I have to tell you, sweetheart? You can consider me your mom if you want - I love you just as much as I love Cosette. I count myself incredibly lucky that I got to see you both grow into fine young adults. You’re both going to do great things, I just know it.”

* * *

If Grantaire were the kind of man who believed in God as his schools told him to or his very brief Argentinian upbringing told him to, he would say that what followed over the next few days was caused by divine intervention or was a gift from God themself. As it was, instead, he believed it to be a coincidence, whilst his sister and father claimed it to be a sign from the universe. Though secretly, his father believed it was a sign from God on where he should go next, and Grantaire knew he thought this, but appreciated Valjean for not saying it, mindful of his atheist attitude.

The Mayor of Washington D.C, Warwick Howard, quit his role due to ill health with two years still left on his term. Being the Council President, Jessie Avila was made acting mayor but decided she didn’t want to stay in the role and chose not to accept the job beyond her acting duties, calling for a special election to fill the Mayoral vacancy. Grantaire had never applied for something so fast – not for university, not for Debate Club president, not for his part-time job as a tour guide at a museum in his teens.

Building his campaign and creating a website and leaflet that sold himself, his policies and his achievements served to distract him for a few days.

He shed a few proud, excited tears when his election badges arrived. Sitting inside two concentric circles was a photo of his smiling, professional face, staring out with a hopeful look. Along the bottom in the bold blue text was ‘ _Grantaire for Mayor 2020. District of Columbia._ ’ He would've used his last name but he struggled to get Valjean-Fauchelevent to fit on the pin.

His eyes dulled when he realised the two people he wanted to share these badges with the most were no longer around. Yes, seeing Valjean and Cosette wearing them was a joy, but not being able to share that joy with his best friend or boyfriend was both disappointing and quietly painful.

Sitting on the roof of the White House, cigarette in one hand and a can of lager in the other, Grantaire sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring intently at Alice Roosevelt’s graffiti. Maybe it was hope rebuilding itself in his chest, maybe it was the fact he was on his fourth drink of the night, maybe it was because the golden summer sunset and the fact he was sitting high above the ground reminded him of the lazy Sunday night on the Miami balcony, but a stirring in his stomach told him to finally stand up and fight for his accomplices.

Alice would never have let her accomplices get away, or if they did, she would’ve made new ones and kept moving forward instead of hiding in her bed. He put out his cigarette on the overflowing ashtray he’d brought out with him and traced Alice’s 118-year-old words, hoping it would somehow make her spirit jump into him and tell him what to do – how to go about getting his accomplices back, or how to move forward if he couldn’t.

With an excited, determined shiver running from his fingertips all the way through his limbs and into his heart, Grantaire decided it was time to ask for the answers he wanted and felt he deserved, and he would start with Éponine.


	17. The Confrontation

Looking into his heavily fingerprinted bedroom mirror, Grantaire pierced the needle through his blazer lapel and clipped it into place. He smoothed out his azure tie and for once, when looking at the colour, he wasn’t thinking about the light shade of Enjolras’ eyes when they glittered in the light. Well, he was only not thinking about it only if telling yourself that _not_ thinking about it was the same as actually not thinking about it.

Grabbing his faux leather satchel from the bed and swinging it over his shoulder, he stuffed in a large handful of his campaign leaflets, doing his best not to stop and stare at his name printed on the thick, glossy paper, grinning at it like it was gold.

He thought he might as well slip a few pamphlets through doors and into members of the public’s hands as he made his way to the Dirksen Building. He left the White House with a spring in his step and a chiselled, determined quality to his face.

After months, perhaps even years, of traipsing up and down Washington’s streets handing out fliers for both his father and Éponine, he knew people weren’t particularly susceptible to being given what was essentially tomorrow’s recycling. Even the President’s son could be left with swathes of paper and could walk past trash cans where his own face stared back at him, smeared with ketchup, leftover soda, and even the contents of a dog poo bag…and that’s exactly what did happen. Still, he kept his chin raised high and told himself the blisters would all be worth it in a few weeks’ time whether he won or lost. If he lost, he could learn from his mistakes and try again the next time he ran for something.

The Dirksen security guard gave Grantaire a mistrustful look as he strolled past and pushed a leaflet into his hand.

“I’ve got my eye on you, Grantaire,” he warned, holding Grantaire’s manifesto between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a bus ticket. “Don’t go making any trouble with her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Grantaire said, beaming and pushing his way through the doors to smell that comforting scent of printer ink and coffee.

He took the stairs instead of the lift – he had too much energy and wanted to keep moving. He ran up the last flight and had barely come into view of her office door when he heard her voice and the gentle thud of short nails on laptop keys.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said, closing the lid of her laptop and lifting her head.

Grantaire knitted his brows together as he came into the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he said sardonically. “I know how disappointing waiting must have been for you.”

She leaned back in her chair, so it squeaked on its mechanism, and gripped the arms of it, tapping her square tips against the plastic. There was a smile at the corner of her mouth she was trying to suppress as she caught the sight of his campaign badge. “I heard about that,” she said, nodding towards it. “You really are just like your dad.”

“I’m not here to talk about that,” he said firmly, coming up behind the empty chair on the visitor's side of the desk and resting his hands on it. “What the fuck, Éponine? Why the fuck would you go to him? He stands for everything we hate.”

Éponine looked him in the eye, unblinking, and shrugged casually. “I have my reasons, and frankly, they’re none of your business.”

“None of my business?!” Grantaire choked out, mildly embarrassed at how high his voice had become. “Was it none of my business when I spent every weekend and every day after uni on your campaign? Was it none of my business when I finished building your website for you? Was it none of my business when you came to dinner every Sunday? What about all those times we spent in restaurants and bars and cafes talking about how we wanted to change the world? I looked up to you, Éponine, you were my role model and you threw away everything we worked for!”

“It’s not my fault you looked up to me,” she said bluntly. “I never asked you to do that.”

“It’s not just me though,” Grantaire argued, digging his nails into the back of the chair. “You were a role model for every other fucking kid just like us! We told them we could achieve and that they could do anything no matter where they came from…and for what? So, you could betray those kids and everyone else you vowed to help for any semblance of power and some cash in your pocket?”

Éponine shook her head and clicked her tongue against her strangely sharp teeth. “There are some things in this world you don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand!” Grantaire implored, raising his voice – the first time he’d ever done so at her. She barely responded except for a subtle quirk of her sharp brow. “Look directly at me and make me understand because I’ve been going over this in my head again and again…and it doesn’t make any sense. Does he have dirt on you? Is he blackmailing you?”

She crossed her left leg over her right, her ramrod resolve not buckling an inch under his scrutiny. “Thénardier has some good policies and any that need work can be worked on. It’s that simple.”

“What policies?” Grantaire asked, frowning, kicking the leg of the chair. “He has no fucking policies! He talks and he talks, but nothing of substance comes out of that black hole of a face.”

“And yet he’s growing in popularity,” she pointed out. “People like him, and he likes people. He speaks for a whole community your father doesn’t and he’s playing that game very well. I wanted to be part of the team.”

It was like a vessel had burst in the back of Grantaire’s head and all he could see was red. He kicked over the chair, falling forwards to drop his hands on her desk, smacking against it with his fists. Éponine didn’t move a muscle.

“Politics isn’t a game,” he said through gritted teeth. “People’s lives are not part of a game! As soon as you start treating people, people with real fucking lives who will be affected by the choices you make, like game pieces, you’ve lost all credibility as a politician and as a person.”

“Everyone sells out for one reason or another,” Éponine said. “Everyone has their price, and everyone has the right to change their mind or change their principles. Even you have your price, you just don’t know what that is yet.”

“And I never will,” Grantaire told her. “I can’t be bought. I will never _let_ myself be bought and I will never let myself be like you.”

Éponine scoffed, which only served to make Grantaire angrier. “Don’t be so naïve!” she began. “How can you be running for mayor when you still believe politicians can’t be bought? They can and they’re bought daily. Occasionally, people will leave you, Grantaire, because they have bigger fish to fry. Sometimes they’ll betray you and sometimes they change their minds. And sometimes,” she said, dropping her eyes a fraction. “Sometimes, they do things you can’t quite explain. If you’re going to become mayor, you need to learn that lesson and learn it fast or you’ll never make it in this career.”

“Interesting,” Grantaire said, taking a deep breath and poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He dug his hand into his bag and pulled out a leaflet, whacking it on to the dark wood of her desk so his hand blushed crimson. “I can’t wait for you to watch me become mayor with my principles intact.”

He calmly turned and opened the office door, exiting with a quiet grace but feeling like a raging bull inside. Behind him, Éponine was left to pick up the knocked over chair and contemplate the pamphlet.

* * *

**The Puke of Normandy**

I know you’ve been ghosting me, but just in case you change your mind, I’m letting you know that I’m on my way to Versailles.

I’m not even joking.

Like, this isn’t a ploy to get you to talk to me. I’m physically flying over an ocean as I write these words.

Stay silent if you still want to be my baby.

Okay, that one WAS a ploy and I so thought you’d take the bait!

Look, it’s okay if you changed your mind about us. It happens and I know we have a lot more to overcome than most couples…so if this was too much for you, I get it and I understand. But I at least deserve a proper break-up.

Going silent for weeks shortly after an AMAZING weekend was a dick move. Fuck you.

FUCK YOU!

I hate you. I fucking hate you so much sometimes.

But fuck, I miss you.

I might have had a few drinks on the plane to help me with this. Sorry.

It doesn’t stop it being true though. I really do miss you. I miss our late-night phone calls and the way your tongue curls around my name when you tell me I’m an idiot or you hate me. I miss you sending me memes and songs I might like.

Which reminds me, I’ve been listening to Francoise Hardy a lot lately and all her songs just make me want to dance with you, cook with you, make love to you, and be your big spoon even though you’re much taller than me and you have to curl up all tiny.

Fuck, okay. I’ll stop now. Promise.

See you soon. I hope. X

* * *

When Grantaire began to approach the golden gates of Versailles, it was already nearing midnight and the sky was an inky canvas pierced with dazzling tiny lights, beneath which were armed guards. One every fifteen metres or so, spanning the breadth of the palace’s perimeters. When a civilian walked past, they did so quickly, keeping their heads down as the guards eyed them suspiciously and tightened their hands on the grips of their guns.

He approached with a surprising amount of confidence and swagger, the minibar on the plane and the long layover in the tapas bar nearby having given him more faith than he probably deserved or needed, to the point where he laughed when the guard closest to him raised his gun, making a pedestrian freeze in fear before finding the strength to run away.

“Can you let me in?” Grantaire asked.

The guard frowned and brandished the gun as if it weren’t already obvious what the answer would be. “No unauthorised personnel.”

Grantaire snorted and got his ID from his pocket – the card itself just visible by the light of the streetlamp. “I’m the First Son of the United States, Grantaire Valjean-Fauchelevent. I’m well acquainted with the King and his sons.”

“Even if you are the First Son,” the Guard sneered, looking Grantaire up and down sceptically, “you’re not on the list of authorised personnel. No one is allowed in or out.”

“That’s absurd,” Grantaire said, tucking his ID back into his wallet. “Call Combeferre or Bahorel on your little radio thing. They’ll vouch for me.”

The Guard’s head stayed still but the muscles underneath his protective gear tensed. “Sir, you are not authorised by the King and you have to leave.”

“But I-“ Grantaire wasn’t able to finish his sentence before the Guard cocked his gun, leaving him to walk away with his hands in the air and his heart in his throat.

He strode along the street in the opposite direction, chewing his lip and smelling acrid smoke that was being carried on the wind from some distance away. Unsure what to do next and unable to organise his thoughts yet again, he leaned heavily against a wall and did what he always did in times of trouble: chain-smoked until the problem was hidden by a nicotine haze.

It would have been easy for Grantaire to turn around and go home at this stage – clearly nothing more could be done. The guards were ready to shoot, the King would never grant him clearance, and Enjolras wouldn’t answer him. But Grantaire didn’t like doing things the easy way and he’d already come this far. Dropping his cigarette butt on the pavement slabs and swapping it for his phone, he called Combeferre – but he didn’t answer either.

“Don’t be mad,” Grantaire said after the voice mail tone. “But I might be outside Versailles. The palace, not the city lines or whatever. Can you come down and make those pricks with the guns let me in? I’ll camp out here all night if I’ve got to. Okay, bye, see you in a minute.” He hung up the phone but found it vibrating in his hand a moment later. “Combeferre!” he exclaimed as he answered. “So, you _do_ know how to use your phone!”

“You’re outside the palace?” Combeferre said, his throat lightly scratchy from exhaustion.

“Yes!” Grantaire said, exasperated. “Can you let me in? I need to speak to Enjolras. Urgently.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t let you in even if I wanted to. I don’t work there anymore,” he said regretfully.

There was a pause as Grantaire tried to process what had been said, but his brain kept showing him a red error message, and this wasn’t something he could call IT about. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t work there and haven’t done for a few weeks,” Combeferre explained further. “The King fired me, Bahorel, and Jehan.”

“What?” Grantaire asked. He felt dizzy and had to slide down the wall into a crouch to stop his legs from giving up on him. “Why?”

“He found out we were at the storming of the Bastille. And yes,” Combeferre said, pre-empting his next question, “he knows Enjolras was there too.”

Grantaire’s hand snaked its way into his hair as his worst fears began to become real. “Is he okay?”

The split second of silence before Combeferre admitted that he didn’t know was more telling than anything Combeferre could have said. “I need to see him,” Grantaire said firmly. “I have to.”

“Fuck, okay,” Combeferre sighed, the rustling of bedsheets coming from his end of the phone as pulled himself out of bed. He didn't say it to Grantaire lest he worried him, but he wanted to know if Enjolras was okay too. “Stay where you are – I might be able to get you in.”

When he arrived an hour later, Combeferre was wearing a smart suit and a checkered tie. He’d brought along his largest bag – so big, it looked more like a weekend bag.

Grantaire frowned down at his jeans and hoodie, doing his best not to reveal how drunk he was after waiting for Combeferre in a wine bar. Well, what else was he supposed to do? “We don’t look like we’ve been to the same place.”

“That’s what the crowbar is for,” Combeferre said, patting his bag.

“The _what_?!” Grantaire choked.

Without a further word, Combeferre began to walk back towards the palace, Grantaire hot on his heels. He talked with the same guard that had threatened Grantaire and flashed him some ID – a copy of Claquesous’ but with Combeferre’s photo painstakingly added. When this was all over, Grantaire promised himself he’d ask where he got the ID and why he had it in the first place.

“You can come in,” the Guard said, motioning for the gates to be opened. “But _he_ has to stay here,” he added, pointing roughly at Grantaire with the gun.

“Very well,” Combeferre said calmly. “I’m sorry Grantaire. Some other time, perhaps?” He strolled through the gates without looking behind him but did send a text to the very confused Grantaire, instructing him to walk around palace until he reached the back of the Estate of Trianon – at least another forty minutes on foot. It was to be a long night.

Here, out of view from the main streets, the guards were non-existent and, when he finally got to the meeting point, Grantaire frowned at Combeferre through the bars – he was sitting on the grass, patiently waiting like a life-size garden gnome, scrolling through his phone and yawning.

“I’m intimately aware of the King’s finances,” Combeferre said, getting the crowbar from his bag. “He can’t afford to have armed guards around the entire perimeter. He’s in too much debt from his own reckless spending and has too few weapons after the Children of Liberty burned them.”

Having already scouted for the correct gate post whilst waiting for Grantaire, Combeferre took the crowbar to it, hooked it, and pulled until it popped out and clattered on to the grass.

“Are you coming in or staring at it like a guppy?” Combeferre asked. He pushed the bar back into place after Grantaire had stopped gawking and wrestled his broad shoulders through the narrow gap.

“Isn’t this how-“

“The Children of Liberty got into the Bastille?” Combeferre finished. “Yes. The woman who cut the bars that day was Matelote – she’s a barista at the café we frequent and when we were fired, we asked her to pull the same trick here. Just in case we might need it someday.”

“Fuck, you guys really do have your spies everywhere,” Grantaire said, his skin breaking out in goose-pimples. “I feel like I’m in a spy novel. What’s next, Q?”

“There’s a secret passage to the main palace through the Petit Trianon, but Prince Louis and Manon are in the process of moving there," he said gleefully. "Are you feeling brave?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” Combeferre said, putting he crowbar back into his bag. “You woke me up at midnight for your lover’s quest and now I’m making you carry on.”

“That’s fair.”

Grantaire followed Combeferre closely as he made his way to the entrance of the Petit Trianon. He looked through one of the ornate windows and saw nothing except the hazy outlines of cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other. Perhaps the guards stationed at the front of the palace had made Louis and Manon cocky, as when Combeferre pushed on the door handle, it gave way easily, letting the door swing open on its well-oiled hinges.

The entrance to the passage was in a door under the main staircase – decorated to look like the wainscoting so you wouldn’t see it unless you were looking for it. The walkway wasn’t dull and dingy as Grantaire had expected – it was more like one of the grand corridors in the palace itself, only a little dustier from lack of use. They walked through it by the light of Combeferre’s phone torch, stopping when they thought they could hear footsteps above them or were tricked by the echo of their own feet.

“Keep following the hall,” Combeferre told him. “It will lead you straight to the King’s Apartments and into the Council Chamber. You’ll be able to make your way to Enjolras there.”

Grantaire frowned. “You’re not coming?”

“Of course not,” he answered. “This is what _you_ wanted, and you’ll need someone to help you get out again, remember? It’s no good if we’re both wandering around the palace and we both get caught.”

“But I have to go past the King’s bedroom!”

Combeferre smirked. “Yes, so don’t get caught.”

If Grantaire had been soberer, he might have turned around and gone home, or at least have taken his trainers off as he emerged into the Council Chamber, holding his breath. He didn’t take much notice of his surroundings, instead, he made a beeline for the door leading to the Hall of Mirrors, a sense of dread in his chest as he second-guessed himself, half-expecting to open the door into the King’s bedroom to find him sleeping under mountains of silk, working out how to dispose of the Children of Liberty, or discussing Enjolras’ marriage with the King of Belgium or the English Queen – no doubt more desperate to get rid of him than ever.

As it happened, he did stumble into the Hall of Mirrors, where a hand immediately grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back through another door. A second hand clamped around his mouth to muffle any noise of surprise. He struggled underneath the surprisingly strong grip and waved his arms like the fans of a windmill as he was pulled through another few rooms.

The door shut on Enjolras’ bedroom and he let go of Grantaire, flushed in the face and eyes rimmed red. “What the fuck are you doing here?!” he said, wanting to shout but unable to do more than whisper. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we could both be in if someone sees you here?!”

“I had to get your attention somehow!” Grantaire answered, drinking in the welcome sight of Enjolras. Enjolras in his cosy grey loungewear and slippers. Enjolras with his Rapunzel hair piled on top of his head with a hairband that had seen better days. Enjolras, who, despite his grey pallor, was still as beautiful as ever.

“You really didn’t!” Enjolras said, straddling the line between exploding with anger and bursting into tears. Either way, his gangly frame was doing all it could to keep itself together as the emotions battered against his very soul like a thunderstorm on a windowpane. “Why couldn’t you let us go our separate ways as any other normal person would?”

“Because I want you to look me in the eye and break up with me,” Grantaire said, suddenly horrifically sober and keenly aware that he would be unable to hide from the conversation if he didn’t like Enjolras’ answers. “I don’t deserve to be ignored or treated like a toy you throw away when you get bored of it. I deserve better than that.”

Enjolras flicked his tongued against his bottom lip and folded his arms against his chest as if he were trying to protect it. “Is that all you've come to say? If so, you can go now, Grantaire. I didn’t ask you to come and I didn’t want you to come either.”

“I don’t believe that,” Grantaire said, taking half a step forward and hesitating when Enjolras took one back. “You would’ve told someone I was here if you didn’t want to see me.”

“I didn’t want you getting into trouble,” Enjolras explained. “But I still don’t want to see you.”

“If that’s true, tell me we’re over and that you want me out your life. Look at me and tell me,” he said, as though it were a dare. He had to use all his strength not to grab Enjolras’ face between his hands and caress his cheeks. “Tell me it’s over and I promise I’ll never see you again.”

Enjolras shook his head, tightening his grip on his arms, but he winced and let himself go. “That’s impractical, Grantaire. As long as our fathers are world leaders, we’ll be in each other’s lives – there’s no getting away from it.”

Raising his eyebrows, Grantaire let out a bitter laugh, an almost triumphant smile spreading over his mouth. “You can’t say it, can you? You can’t break up with me to my face because you still care.”

He smiled more when Enjolras looked at the ground in response.

“Please don’t make this any harder than it already is,” Enjolras implored, looking up again with a pleading glance. “Please go. Never come here again unless you’re invited by the King.”

“No. Not until you tell me why,” Grantaire said, slowly moving forward. This time, Enjolras didn’t move back. “I know things weren’t easy but fuck, Enjolras, you made me fall in lo-“

“Don’t say it,” Enjolras snapped, his face draining of colour as he realised how loud his voice was becoming. “Don’t you dare say it,” he said, quieter this time, looking increasingly cold behind the eyes.

“Why not?” Grantaire challenged. “You feel the same, don’t you? It was implied every time you said you hated me, it was implied every time you ran your fingers through my hair or kissed a mole on my shoulder or my chest. It was implied when you gave me music recommendations for waltzes. Fuck, you were even trying to say it when you flew for twenty-four hours just to see me for an hour on Cosette’s birthday of all days, but I was too blind to see it! Why can’t I say it back?”

“Because you already have,” Enjolras said, a tear falling onto his cheek. “Because you were saying it when you taught me how to make empanadas and you were saying it every time you shared your cigarettes with me. You said it when you made a breakfast picnic for us and you're saying it by being here tonight. I fucking _know_ , Grantaire, but I can’t let you say it out loud.”

“Why? What difference does it make if I actually say it?”

“If you tell me, I can’t pretend this whole thing was just a fling anymore,” Enjolras said, shrugging helplessly. “I can’t pretend this didn’t mean anything to either of us.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said softly. “Why would you want to pretend? We had something great, didn’t we? Does somebody know something?”

He lifted his hands to run his hands through his hair, only to remember it was tied back. “Please go,” Enjolras said again. “The longer you’re here, the worse it’s going to be.”

As Enjolras turned to open the door and shove him out, Grantaire swiftly caught his wrist – much as he had done in the Labyrinth after they’d first kissed. “Not until you explain to me what’s going on.” He held him a little firmer as Enjolras tried to wriggle his arm free.

“Let go of me,” Enjolras said, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing against Grantaire. “You’re hurting me – let go!” he hissed.

“I’m not even holding you that tightly,” Grantaire said, keeping his hold on him and trying to bring Enjolras closer to him, hoping the feeling of his hand would be enough to get him to melt against him as he had many times before.

In their tango of pushing, pulling, pleading words and stern instructions, neither man wanting to admit defeat, the sleeve of Enjolras’ sweatshirt rose to expose the blooming violet marks wrapped around his wrist and forearm. As Grantaire frowned in stunned silence at them, Enjolras took the moment of distraction to pull himself away and cover his arm again, wishing the whole night was nothing more than a bad dream. Wishing he would wake up and still be lying in Courfeyrac’s spare bedroom, his forehead pressed against Grantaire’s under the warm sheets.

There were no words spoken for at least a minute as Grantaire tried to make sense of what he’d seen – going through all the stages of grief as his heart broke again, something he thought Enjolras couldn’t do to him more than once. A few feet away, Enjolras sat on the foot of his bed, looking at the floor and trying to mentally predict what Grantaire might ask.

“Enjolras…”

“Don’t,” Enjolras said firmly, holding up his hand but keeping his head low. “Just…don't.”

Grantaire came with quiet steps to Enjolras’ side and sat next to him on the bed. He didn’t look at him, instead, he stared straight ahead at the blank wall in front of them and gently placed his hand over Enjolras’. For once in his life, he didn’t know what to say, and even if he did, Enjolras would probably shut him down again anyway. Still, he was pleased when Enjolras didn’t push him away, and then an overwhelming swell of relief engulfed him when Enjolras turned his hand to interlace their fingers together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice before now and I’m sorry it’s happening at all,” Grantaire said finally, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I was always incredibly careful around _him_ in the weeks and days leading up to seeing you. I didn’t want you to notice,” Enjolras said simply.

“Why?” Grantaire asked, aghast. “You should come back to America with me…where me, Dad, and Cosette can keep you safe.”

Smiling mournfully, Enjolras shook his head. “That’s partly why I didn’t want you to notice in the end. Look, as much as I would love to run away with you, I have unfinished work here and I want to stay to complete it. Plus, he’s already separated me from my friends, I can’t just skip across the Atlantic and be even further from them.”

“I can’t tell if you’re brave or stupid.”

Enjolras pressed his lips together and said, “I’ve always been a little bit of both.” He sighed and chewed the nail on his free hand. “I’m sorry I ghosted you, but it felt like I had no other choice…I had to protect you and I thought you wouldn’t fight back if I ignored you.”

Feeling the prickle of a tear in his eye, Grantaire blinked it back furiously and tried to laugh. “Then you clearly don’t know me very well...Why did you feel like you needed to protect me?”

In a tumble of quiet words said as casually as if he were discussing the weather, Enjolras explained what happened that fateful night. He told him about Montparnasse and how he knew about them, about the unknown betrayal, how the King had embarrassed his friends and discarded them like they were nothing. He told him about his mother’s photograph and how his friends had become experts in cleaning up the blood.

“I couldn’t protect them because they were already in Dad’s warpath,” Enjolras shrugged. “But I could protect you because you weren’t.” He slumped against Grantaire’s side with an air of finality, not bothering to hide the flinch that came after he knocked his healing shoulder a little too hard against Grantaire’s steady frame. He softened when Grantaire gently wrapped his arms around him and kissed his head.

“You asked me to help you wherever I could,” Grantaire said into his ear, “and I said yes, and I meant it. I’ll do anything you asked me to.”

“I can’t tell if that’s brave or stupid,” Enjolras said, mocking Grantaire with a smile. “Seriously though…you can’t say you’d do anything when I know you won’t leave this alone when I ask you to.”

Grantaire kissed his temple and held him a little tighter. “Unfortunately, I’m incapable of leaving things alone. Speaking of which, do you mind if I ask you a few nosy questions?”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” Enjolras noted.

“When did all this start?”

“Shortly after Maman died.”

“Did he hurt you after the cake incident?”

“Yes,” Enjolras admitted. “But he so kindly left my face alone for the press interviews afterwards, so that was something,” he added bitterly.

Grantaire dropped his face into Enjolras’ hair. “No wonder you didn’t want me to talk to him…” he sighed and caressed his shoulder. “Can I see what he’s done? That bruise looked painful…are there others? Are they all the same?”

Enjolras gently pulled away, a frown taking over his mouth and a nervous look in his crystal eyes. “Are you sure you want to look? I mean…they’re all as bad as each other.”

“I’d like to get a better understanding of what you’re up against.”

Enjolras chewed the inside of his cheek and cleared his throat, shaking his head as he changed his mind. “Look, I wasn’t expecting any of this tonight and I certainly wasn’t ready to tell you, so no. I don’t want you to see the other bruises and cuts…but there is something important we need to discuss.”

“There is?” Grantaire asked, wrapping his arms around Enjolras again – almost afraid of what might happen if he let go.

“You’re running for mayor?!” Enjolras grinned, craning his neck to look at him with pride. “I always knew you’d go on to be like your Dad.”

Grantaire laughed despite himself, quietly pleased that Enjolras had been checking up on him and American politics in general as he had been doing the same for Enjolras. He gasped in mocked fear. “Have you been stalking me? Obsessed much, Malfoy?”

“Be serious for a moment,” Enjolras said, turning on the bed to face him. “I’m so glad you decided to run…You have no idea how much faith I’ve got in you. I remember when you were campaigning for your Dad’s first term. Not only were you doing that, but you were also going around drumming up support and raising money for your local community centre on the side…I saw how hard you were working and fuck, Grantaire, I was so impressed with your tenacity and I was jealous of the things you were achieving.”

There was a bright smile spreading across Grantaire’s features, and if he were there under different circumstances, he would have been milking the praise for all it was worth. “ _You_ were jealous of _me_?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and nudged him gently. “Yes. That’s why I ‘hated,’” – he put the word in air quotes – “you. I was jealous and astounded and a little bit in love with that charming, optimistic boy and it was really fucking annoying.”

“Really? You felt like that the whole time?” Grantaire looked at him with the wonder of a child at Christmas. "You were a little in love with me the whole time?"

“Unfortunately, yes,” Enjolras said, trying to get back some of their usual parlance, touching Grantaire’s knees with eager fingertips. “But my point is that I could tell you’d keep trying to be great, that you’d do something wonderful someday and the world would take notice of you. Like, actually take notice of _you_ instead of your Dad or your childhood. And now your time is coming.”

“Whilst I appreciate your optimism,” Grantaire said slowly, “there’s still a chance I won’t be elected.”

Enjolras waved a hand, dismissing the idea like his father would dismiss a housemaid. “Will that stop you from trying again?” When Grantaire said no, Enjolras laughed, being careful to keep the snorting to a minimum. “This is just the beginning for you.”

In a matter of moments, things had started to feel normal, but of course, they weren't. Slowly, Grantaire’s smile faded and he looked at the small sliver of bedspread between them. “I’m sorry for asking…but are we still together? Are we back together? Because I really want to kiss you properly and if it’s going to be the last time I get to do it, I’d rather not so I don’t break both our hea-“

His train of thought was interrupted by Enjolras’ lips pressing against his and his body pushing him back against the pillows. Grantaire fought the urge to slide his hands under Enjolras’ sweatshirt – instead, he clutched the soft material between his fingers. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and it was doing so harder than when they’d fought in the cupboard, the first time they’d kissed, and the first time they spent the night together.

After only a few weeks of separation and what felt like a lifetime of change for them both, they relished in the feeling of their mouths on one another and the comforting weight of their limbs touching each other – trying to make up for the lost time and saying the things they wanted to but didn’t have the words for.

“You should go,” Enjolras whispered once his lips had become a dull ache. He rolled himself off Grantaire and pushed the loosening tendrils of hair from his face. “The longer you’re here, the worse things will be if we’re caught.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, sitting up but not standing up. “Give me a few minutes though, yeah?”

Enjolras slapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. “Right, sorry. Want me to say something unsexy?”

“It probably wouldn’t work,” Grantaire admitted. “You have one of the sexiest accents in the world. Everything you say is somewhat hot.”

Enjolras grinned and kissed Grantaire’s shoulder. “When you get back down to the passage, I want you to tell Combeferre that I think he’s a fucking idiot and I’m so mad at him for bringing you here and risking you both. Risking all three of us.”

“Noted,” Grantaire said, his face contorting as he thought about campaign expenses.

“Seriously,” Enjolras said sternly, reminding Grantaire of a strict teacher, which did nothing to help the situation in his trousers. “You tell him the next time I see him; I’m going to make his life hell.”

Grantaire grinned wickedly. “I think you do that for him already.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras said with a smile.

“I wish you could,” Grantaire fired back, standing up and casting his eyes over Enjolras’ face once more. There was colour in his cheeks and a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there when he arrived. “Enjolras?”

“Hm?”

He put his hand on Enjolras’ cheek and smiled so lightly that he might not have smiled at all. “I love you.”

Enjolras touched Grantaire’s hand and smiled back at him, feeling an incredible earnest warmth from his brown eyes. “I love you too.”

“I can’t believe I spent so long hating you when I could’ve been loving back you this whole time.” Grantaire shook his head at himself and kissed the smooth space between Enjolras’ eyebrows.

“We’ll have the opportunity to make up for lost time one day,” Enjolras promised him. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you about what was happening…but I don’t regret it.”

Grantaire nodded, any anger he felt towards him had now melted away like frost on the grass on a sunny day. “I understand, it’s okay. We’ll get to keep carving our space in the universe eventually, won’t we?”

“Of course,” Enjolras assured him. “I don’t intend to break that promise again…not least because you clearly won’t let me.”

“Not whilst we have something good anyway,” Grantaire agreed before kissing Enjolras lightly again so he could leave with the echo of his touch on him. “Not whilst we’ve got something that could go down in history.”


	18. Vita and Virginia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Note: All dates in this chapter are in the European format. 
> 
> I'd also like to apologise - I had to cut and cram like four chapters worth of stuff into this one chapter or I would never have finished writing this fic. Work is taking up so much of my time that it wouldn't have been feasible to finish if I had written as I planned! 
> 
> I am, however, thinking of writing short drabbles based around some of the events that happened during this chapter when my schedule becomes a little freer after Christmas, and I might put those into a collection here. Please let me know if that's something you'd be interested in!

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 28/6/20 2:23 am

Hey gorgeous,

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m definitely a little drunk and I’m definitely thinking about you a little too much…if that’s possible. Like, I’m not doing it in a creepy way where I’m utterly obsessed with you and I physically can’t think of anything else, and I’m jacking myself off every fifteen minutes because even the way you absently tap the side of your mug when you're deep in thought is beautiful to me.

No. I mean, I’m thinking about you as your ever loving and concerned boyfriend. (I love saying that, by the way. I’m your boyfriend. You’re my boyfriend. It’s fuckin madness and I love it.)

Seriously though, it’s like I’m worrying about you as if I were getting paid to do it. I guess I know how Combeferre, Bahorel, and Jehan felt now!

Please tell me you’re staying safe. I can’t fucking stand that he’s laying his hands on you like that when you’re as beautiful, precious, and delicate as his fucking porcelain.

Wait no.

You’re MORE precious because you’re a fucking human being who can’t be replaced and you deserve better than to be treated like a punching bag. You especially don’t deserve it from the man who was supposed to raise you and keep you safe and love you. Where’s the fucking justice???

As much as I love you and your tenacity, I think I’ve decided you’re an idiot rather than brave. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you totally are…but like???? Why won’t you leave? Why wouldn’t you come back with me?

I remember that sort of shit happening to me as a toddler – vaguely, but enough to know how fucking horrifying it is. But you’re an ADULT who’s going to remember that shit so much more and be scarred with it in a way that I’ll never be able to comprehend.

I should never have left without you.

When I think I’ve calmed down about the injustice of it all, I remember your mom and how your dad treated her and what happened to her in the end and it fucking ENRAGES me all over again. Don’t you just want to burn the palace and its history to the ground? I know I do. Preferably with your Dad locked inside.

And your brother too. I bet he just stands, watches, and laughs like a freaky little asshole.

You should’ve come back to America with me. You could be being loved and taken care of by me and my family. You could be lying next to me in bed right now and we could be drunk together. Wine drunk, sex drunk, love drunk, happy drunk, food drunk. Drunk on life. Every kind of drunk that’s good. That’s the kind of space in life I want us to carve for ourselves - some suspended world where it's just us being drunk on the things that make us happy without a care in the world.

Virginia Woolf wrote a letter to Vita Sackville-West in 1927 that sums up the energy I have for you right now: -

“Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.”

In this scenario, “your man” can be replaced with “your duties” or “your family.” I considered writing “your cause” as well but, no, I could never ask that of you. It’d be like you asking me to give up mine and I know how shit that would make me feel.

But as Virginia said, I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head. We could go to the Potomac River and eat croque monsieur and we could tell each other everything and anything that came to mind. Think of that.

I know a perfect little spot by the river – it’s rocky and surrounded by foliage. It’s beautiful in the summer and you’d love it. It’s a breath-taking view. I sometimes think about bringing you there so we can be ourselves and share our secrets with one another.

If you had told me six months ago that I’d come to the point where I loved you, felt comfortable telling you everything, free from any judgement, and felt like I could live happily forever with you nearby, I would’ve laughed. I would’ve laughed and told you to fuck off and to stop trying to psych me out.

I guess, what this email is trying to say in its own long-winded way is that I love you. I love you; I miss you, and I want you to be safe. Don’t do anything stupid and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

We’ll see each other soon.

Yours in absentia,

R.

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 28/6/20 6:54pm

I wanted to begin this email by addressing you as a “sweet romantic fool” but I figured that by now, you’ll be sober and somewhat embarrassed by your own ramblings. In which case, calling you a sweet romantic fool wouldn’t be the way to go – instead, I’ll begin by calling you by my favourite nickname.

To the Worst Son of the United States,

I love you too.

No doubt it’s easier said than done, but please don’t worry about me too much. Yes, the way the King treats me and abuses me is not ideal, but it keeps him away from my friends and my people. What else am I supposed to do? I imagine this is how Maman felt, in a way. She’d rather take the abuse than let me or Louis get it.

Although, sometimes I wonder what went through her head in the days and hours leading up to her death. I don’t think she would’ve left us like she did if she thought it might leave Louis and me in danger of him – she knew what he was capable of and still had enough faith to believe he wouldn’t do it to us. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse, to be honest. I hate to imagine what she’d think if she could see what her family has become. If she knew all of this would happen, would she still decide to go? Would she still have stolen my father's liquor? Would she have dared to kiss me for the last time? I feel like my mother’s suicide is a conversation for the quiet waters of Potomac where I can seek comfort in you.

I am remarkably familiar with that love letter, my contemporary Virginia. Jehan loves reciting old love letters and poetry – I feel very much like Vita in her response.

“I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So, this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.”

You’ll recognise my stand-offish ways and I’m sure your ego will adore that you’ve managed to break me down and make me love you without you even trying. You didn't even know you were doing it.

I promise you, someday, some glorious day, we’ll finish carving our space in the universe and we can be together openly as we want to be. On that day, I’ll gladly “throw over my man” and join you. But, as you rightly pointed out, my duty, first and foremost, is to the public; the people my father extorted and abandoned in search of power.

On a cheerier note – how are you doing? How’s the mayoral campaign coming on? What about your Dad’s presidential campaign? Have Cosette and Marius started planning their wedding yet? How’s Fantine doing? Catch me up on everything! I’d ask you to call me, but my phone has suddenly gone missing…

Love,

E.

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 5/7/20 8:23 pm

To AurALIEN, Puke of Normandy,

You’ll be pleased to know that I’m not reading my last email back because I’m already embarrassed by what I said from context. If you’re going to rib me about my drunken ramblings forever, I might as well not understand them to their full extent and take some of the joy from you!

I’m not in the habit of saying this, but you’re right. I am proud of myself for making you love me. It’s been my greatest achievement so far. You’re not standoffish though; not really. I see you when you’re dancing with others and playing your role in this life – you’re charming and kind; you can act like no one I’ve ever met. Maybe I thought you were standoffish, to begin with, but now that I know you better, I can see right through it. Having anxiety isn’t the same as purposefully being a dick.

Things are picking up quite quickly over here. Thénardier is now the presumptive nominee and my mayoral election campaign seems to be going well. It’s hard to say since there are so many other awesome candidates. And some proper horrendous ones too, of course.

Dad’s rattled by Thénardier’s presence, but I can tell he’s still quietly confident.

OH MY GOD.

In all the drama that’s been unfolding, I never got to tell you that I confronted Éponine. She was…vague and didn’t show any remorse for what she had done. I just hope the money and infamy were worth it, you know? I told her that as much, but she didn’t seem to listen or care. I never imagined I’d be fighting my best friend.

Cosette hasn’t begun official wedding plans yet – she’s too focused on her career and the campaigns for the time being – she just lets her mom and Marius make suggestions and she makes non-committal comments back. Marius keeps saying things to casually let her know he’s ready to start the official planning though. They’ll be eating dinner and he’ll say, “this chicken’s nice. Do you think we should serve chicken?”

Or, “this checked material is very smart. What do you think? It might be a little too bold for a suit, but it could be nice for something else.”

Or he’ll walk past a stationery shop and say, “that craft card would make beautiful place settings. I suppose it depends on what theme we go for though. It feels very regal and probably wouldn’t suit a rustic theme if that’s what we went for.”

I think it’s annoying her to some extent because there will always be time for wedding planning whilst campaigning is really a now-or-never kind of thing. Still, I think in her heart she finds it somewhat endearing that he’s so excited to marry her.

What’s life like with you right now? The phone thing is fishy and I don’t like it…I hope you’re still able to email your friends as you can with me. Are they all okay? Are they helping you? Have they found new jobs?

Bahorel and Muschietta still despair of me and are despairing even more so now that I’m running for mayor. They’re keeping their eyes on me like I’ll do something stupid if they look away (and they might be right. Look what happened last time I was left alone – I ran to find you!)

Joly is looking to get a job as a White House physician – he misses Bahorel and Musichetta when they’re at the House with us, but I know he’ll miss the community in his local practice. He’s already said some of the older patients will be put off by him leaving if he does. They don’t much like the idea of having to build up a rapport with someone new.

I really do hope our lives will turn for the better. You might not believe it, but I am a romantic person at heart. Some might say we’re moving too fast – that me running to you to confront you was impulsive, brash, and stupid. They might say I shouldn’t have fallen in love with you so fast or so hard. Some may say we’re not in love at all because of how fast we fell. Sometimes I catch myself thinking it too but then I remember how close love and hate can be and I think…fuck, babe, we were years in the making, weren’t we? To the outside, it’s been a whirlwind romance, but inside? We’ve been dragging out the inevitable for years. I just wish I knew it as soon as you did.

I miss you and love you.

Yours,

R.

P.S; I don’t know if you’ll get it, but I’ve posted you one of my campaign badges and a manifesto. You don’t have to keep them, but I thought you might like to see them.

P.P.S; Peter Orlovsky to Allen Ginsberg, 1958.

“but I do feel good and so don’t worry dear Allen things are going ok – we'll change the world yet to our desire – even if we got to die – but OH the world's got 25 rainbows on my window sill…”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 7/7/20 9:28 pm

R,

The package you sent was gratefully received! I can’t believe I get to see your face on official election merchandise!! I love that for you, and I don’t think I could be more impressed by your achievements.

I’m still sorry about Éponine and I hope she’ll come around one day and realise how wrong she was. Even if she doesn’t, I’m proud of you for talking to her – it must have been difficult for you. You’re a true wonder.

Combeferre and Jehan are living with Courfeyrac, though Combeferre is looking for a flat of his own, as you can imagine! He’s got a job in the casualty ward at a hospital in Paris – he works long, unusual hours and he’s worried he’s disturbing J and C too much with his strange working hours.

As for Bahorel, he’s moved in with Feuilly and has a flourishing new career as a security guard at the Catacombs, which Jehan is furiously jealous of – he keeps asking him to let him go down there at night on his own, but of course, the answer is no every time.

Jehan has decided to switch careers again and he’s now a freelancer. He’s a writer, a gardener, a seamster, an illustrator, and a translator…he likes to keep himself on his toes.

We're still able to email one another and continue our plans, though it’s not as easy and adapting has been an uphill struggle. With my friends absent from the palace and my phone gone, it’s been hard for us to collect evidence of the King’s physical and verbal violence. It’s been harder for us to throw spanners in the cogs of the King’s plans. But still, we try.

The Children of Liberty are plotting once again – Montparnasse and his people have crawled from their hiding places to tell us the good news. He claims he didn’t betray us to the King the last time and insisted that he’d never tell anyone about the two of us – I don’t know if I can believe him.

I’m due to fly to Greece tomorrow with Louis for my first official engagement since my friends were fired, and it will also be the first time I’ve been allowed to leave the palace since the Storming. As much as I hate living here, I can at least be myself to some sort of extent locked behind these golden doors. When we’re at official engagements, the acting you praised me for comes into play and I feel more trapped than ever. I don’t like being that person who’s paraded around in finery and forced to pretend to like scallops. (I realise the scallops thing is a relatively small aspect before you tease me for it, but it’s an ALLEGORY, GRANTAIRE. IT'S ABOUT WHAT THE SCALLOPS REPRESENT.)

It’s nice to hear that you and your family are doing well. I miss them all – even Marius! I imagine when he finds out about everything, he’ll change his mind about the King…I’m looking forward to the future grovelling apology 😉

Keep me updated about the campaigns – I’m keeping up with the news, but I want to hear it from you. Give my love to your family and friends and pray that I don’t end up stabbing myself with a fork at this dinner with the Greek Prime Minister tomorrow.

I love you.

E.

P.S; Eleanor Roosevelt to Lorena Hickok, 1933.

“Ah, how good it was to hear your voice. It was so inadequate to try and tell you what it meant. Funny was that I couldn’t say je t’aime and je t’adore as I longed to do, but always remember that I am saying it, that I go to sleep thinking of you.”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 14/7/20 00:01 am

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Did I wait until midnight to send this email so I could see in your birthday and be the first to say it? Maybe. Who’s to say? Either way, I’m gonna be real mad if I’ve miscalculated the time difference and this arrives late.)

ANYWAY,,,,, I hope you have as wonderful a day as you’re able. I hope you can talk to your friends and the people who love you today (I mean, I wish that every day but even more so today).

If I could be with you today, I would’ve gotten up early and made you French toast (one of my specialities – Dad and Cosette LOVE it – I can’t wait to make it for you someday), I would’ve brewed some of the fancy coffee we have with the name I can’t pronounce. I would’ve kissed you good morning as I brought you the tray in bed. I could’ve given you your gift in person (I hope you like it, by the way. I don’t know if you’ve got it yet, but I won’t say what it is in case you haven’t) and I would've melted under the warm weight of your smile.

We could’ve had the best sex of your life and then gone out to do whatever you wanted, and I would’ve taken you to whichever restaurant you liked. It’s hard to imagine the specifics because all these plans I had depend on whether we’re in Paris or Washington.

Either way, I would’ve made sure you felt loved, adored and like you’re the most special man on this planet. Perhaps we can do all that next year?

OH, I ALMOST FORGOT. I totally would’ve baked you a cake too. Probably a chocolate cake with cream and cherries – a black forest cake. It’s rich, smooth, sweet, and, fuck it, I’ll say it – sexy. It’s a sexy fucking cake. I don’t care if it’s a dated dessert - it’s still a sexy cake. And you’re all those things, except a cake, obviously.

I’d make it with real dark chocolate because I know how much you love it. If I could, I’d make it with some of the chocolate Courfeyrac makes.

I know I say it all the time, but I feel it deeper every time I do. I love you and I’m thinking about you always.

As much as I hate your Dad, I’m so glad he did the bare minimum to help make you. You’re the greatest gift and blessing.

So much love,

R.

P.S; Oscar Wilde to Sir Alfred Douglas, 1893.

“Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red rose-leaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing. Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved so madly, was you in Greek days.”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 15/7/20 8:13 am

Sweetheart,

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your good wishes and your beautiful hopes for my birthday – they were a true gift and, not to sound corny, my heart longs for the day we can finally do the things you described.

Speaking of gifts, I think I CRIED when I received yours - I can’t wait to try all the recipes in it. Hell, maybe by the time we meet again I’ll already be able to cook something from it! The way you’ve written a little paragraph about each recipe and why you love it so much, and why you think I will, is one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen or heard.

The little knitted Draco and Harry dolls are adorable as well! Did you make them yourself? Are you a knitter as well as a painter, a politician, an-almost lawyer, and a boxer? Please save some talent for the rest of us, babe. I’m keeping them on my desk next to the picture of Maman. (Courfeyrac sent me a gorgeous light wooden frame with her name engraved on it.)

Our friends and I spent the day chatting online and we even managed to talk on the phone for a little while because Bahorel sent me a burner! I got so excited to call everyone that I ran out of money on it before I had a chance to call everyone. (Sorry, honey.)

Everyone was so lovely…except for the usual suspects, of course.

For my birthday, the King decided to pass a law that made criticism of his leadership and government in the media illegal. He’s also told the police and the army that they can extract information from those under arrest by “any form they see fit.”

So, yeah. A birthday of mixed emotions.

Je t’aime. Je t’adore.

E.

PS; Margaret Mead to Ruth Benedict, 1928.

“I was never more earthborn in my life — and yet never more conscious of the strength your love gives me. You have convinced me of the one thing in life which made living worthwhile. You have no greater gift, darling. And every memory of your face, every cadence of your voice is joy whereon I shall feed hungrily in these coming months.”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 15/7/20 7:43pm

That’s fucking insane and absolutely horrifying.

I don’t know if it will help since your dad is keeping a close watch, but if you’re able to, direct some of those arrested to me and Bossuet. We’ll give them as much legal advice as possible and help them out pro bono.

I love your friends and I love you.

(No, I didn't knit the dolls but now I kind of wish I had...)

R.

PS; Tommaso Cavalieri to Michaelangelo, 1533.

“I promise you truly that you shall receive from me for your kindness affection equal, and perhaps greater, in exchange; for I never loved a man more than I do you, nor desired a friendship more than I do yours. About this, though my judgment may fail in other things, it is unerring.”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 30/7/20 11:12 pm

I ONLY WENT AND GOT FUCKING ELECTED AS MAYOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111111111

Honest to all fuck, I’m so excited, Enjolras. I can’t wait to get started on Monday in my very own office in the Wilson Building, which isn’t far from Dirksen. I’m so much closer to getting to the Senate, babe, I can taste it.

Maybe it’s impulsive of me to be thinking about this, but I’m beginning to think my new position would be a good chance for me to move out and make it on my own. I’d love the independence, but I’m also reluctant to leave Dad since he’s already struggling with “losing” Cosette. Plus, now that Thénardier has officially become the Republican nominee, I want to do my bit supporting Dad and his campaign as much as possible. If that means staying at the White House, then moving can wait a little while longer. I don’t know…moving is just an idea I’ve been entertaining.

I want Dad to know we’re all in his corner. In addition, I want Éponine to know that whilst she can be bought, the rest of us won’t be and we’ll stand together.

An update about the pro bono work: I’ve given a few people some general advice and forwarded more detailed cases to a lawyer I shadowed, Mabeuf, who often takes international clients.

I’ll email again on Monday to tell you about my first day. Unless you really don’t want to hear my ramblings, in which case, I’m sure you’ll tell me to shut up!

Thinking of you always,

R.

PS; Herman Melville to Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1851

“If ever, in the eternal times that are to come, you and I shall sit down in Paradise, in some little shady corner by ourselves; and if we shall by any means be able to smuggle a basket of champagne there […], and if we shall then cross our celestial legs in the celestial grass that is forever tropical, and strike our glasses and our heads together, till both musically ring in concert, – then, O my dear fellow-mortal, how shall we pleasantly discourse of all the things manifold which now so distress us, – when all the earth shall be but reminiscence, yea, its final dissolution an antiquity.”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 3/8/20 10:47 pm

Today was so awesome, Enjolras! Awesome and exhausting and I can’t wait to start all over again tomorrow.

I got into the office around 7:30 and met with the chairman of the City Council where he handed me the notes and paperwork that Warwick Howard had left behind – Howard had even written out a list of tips for me. After I’d finished reading up, I started decorating my desk with my stationery, a few photos, and a little succulent that Cosette bought for me.

At 8, I met with the rest of the council and got to know their roles and what they were working on. Every time I met one of them, I thought “God, I can’t wait to get to know them and work on their projects with them. How can the next person be as cool as them?!” and then THE NEXT MADE THINK THE SAME.

After that, we had a budget meeting which was a lot to take in…but I made my notes as clear as I could. When I admitted that I was dyscalculic and I’d probably need a little help with budget-related issues, no-one was snobby or confused about it, none of them snickered and told me it wasn’t a real thing and that I was stupid.

Well, no-one did that to my face, anyway. The chairman of the committee of Business and Economic Development said she’d help me out if I needed it, so I feel pretty supported so far.

In the afternoon, I had an interview with the local paper and had some official pictures taken as well. I hope one of the pictures is used on my Wikipedia page tbh – it’s so much better than the ugly candid there now. I wouldn't be surprised if you had changed it to that when we still "hated" each other and you'd forgotten to change it back.

How was Greece, by the way? I can’t believe I forgot to ask – I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed the last few weeks. I hope you didn’t stab yourself with a fork in the end.

Love,

R.

PS; Hans Christian Andersen to the Grand Duke of Weimar, 1844

“Yes, yes, my noble friend, I love you as a man can only love the noblest and best. This time I felt that you were still more ardent, more affectionate to me. Every little trait is preserved in my heart. On that cool evening, when you took your cloak and threw it around me, it warmed not only my body, but made my heart glow still more ardently.”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 5/8/20 11:48 pm

You have no idea how much I was grinning reading about your first day as mayor. Honestly, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you and so excited for your future. I keeping thinking about all the change you wanted to implement in your community and now you’ve got a bigger opportunity to do it. It’s beautiful and so are you. I’m glad the council members seem like good people and you’re passionate about their projects – I can’t wait to hear about them and watch you achieve.

(Don’t feel bad about being self-absorbed – I have little going on whilst I’m locked in the palace and unable to talk to people. It’s lovely to read about a normal life from time to time. Well…a life as normal as we’ll ever get anyway.)

Greece was as dull as I was expecting, and I came awfully close to jabbing the president’s fork in my thigh. Even so, the president did make a mild criticism of my father’s increasingly totalitarian regime which made Louis flush with anger and me smile behind my napkin as I pretended to wipe my mouth.

Combeferre has seen an increasing number of patients being escorted into casualty in handcuffs, most of them protestors and members of the Children of Liberty. The police with them don’t seem to care and refuse to wait outside the cubicle so the patient can have some privacy as they’re treated. He says it’s looking more like a military hospital as the days go on with how many armed men there are, and due to the injuries being reported.

It’s terrifying and I feel so helpless sitting here. As you said once before it’s no good if I sit around moping around my gilded cage, but right now I don’t know what else to do.

But we’ll think of something – we always do.

I wish I could see you and thank you properly for all the work you’ve done to help those who needed legal advice. Feuilly has been volunteering even more of his time at SPF now that the charity is seeing an increase in people coming to them for aid after being fined through the nose for being caught at a protest. He’s been directing those who would benefit from yours and Mabeuf’s help to you as well, so if you see an increase in people coming to you, that’s why!

I had a dream about you last night. You were sitting in a tree and whistling a song that I’ve heard but couldn’t name. After a few minutes, you looked down at the ground and offered me your hand as I tried to climb the bark, but when I brushed your fingers, we began to fall in a black expanse, hand in hand. All I could hear was your voice saying, “don’t look up. That’s not where we’re going,” and your mouth pressing against mine. Then I woke up and you weren’t there, but my hand tingled as if someone had been holding it tightly.

I don’t know what it means other than that I miss you, but I knew that before the dream.

Je t’aime.

E.

P.S; Walt Whitman to Peter Doyle, 1868

“I think of you very often, dearest comrade, and with more calmness than when I was there. I find it first rate to think of you, and to know that you are there all right and that I shall return, and we will be together again. I don't know what I should do if I hadn't you to think of and look forward to...”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 28/8/20 7:43 pm

Things are hotting up in the election campaign and we’re itching for the first presidential debate next month, so much so that we’re trying to prepare already. I can feel the anticipation in the air.

Dad has officially told Joly that he can be the White House physician if he’s elected to a second term. As much as he’d like him to come on board now, he didn’t think it was fair for him to quit his job and join them, only for Thénardier to fire him a few months later if he gets voted in.

You can tell Musichetta is excited by the prospect, but she’s trying not to show it in case things don’t work out. Even if Dad doesn’t get re-elected though, I think she’s pleased that she, Bossuet, and Joly will finally get to spend more time together regardless.

I know you’ve not got a phone, so I’ve been talking to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel on and off to stay updated. We all miss you a great deal and we’ll get you out of that cage - just you wait and see. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more dedicated bunch of people. If I had to get anyone to break me out of a fortress, it would be them.

Has your dad hurt you since the aftermath of the Storming? Are you doing okay?

Write back when you can.

R.

P.S; Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas, 1893

“I must see you soon. You are the divine thing I want, the thing of grace and beauty; but I don't know how to do it. [....] Why are you not here, my dear, my wonderful boy?”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 31/8/20 7:03 am

My Contemporary Virginia,

I’ve been researching Thénardier in my downtime. You’re probably aware of this already but I saw that he said he’d been in a Sergeant in army, but I can’t seem to find any record of this? He’s been cagey about where he served, too. Isn’t that strange?

His voting record is inconsistent – it’s like he votes by closing his eyes and choosing at random. Not only that, but he joined the Republican party less than ten years ago. Everything about him feels inconsistent and untrustworthy; he does a good job of talking without saying anything of substance, and yet his approval rating is much higher than common sense should allow.

I’m not surprised you’re eager for the first debate – I’m sure your father will conduct himself with grace, decorum, and a fierce passion that Thénardier could only hope to rival. Personally, I’m looking forward to seeing it.

Whilst I appreciate the support from you all, I can “save” myself. The most effective way for me to get out of here is by keeping my head down and doing as I’m told for the time being. It’s worked before and it’s working now – I’ll be out and back in your arms before you know it!

He’s already releasing his grasp on me. With any luck, he’s decided I’ve been punished enough for the Storming now.

Keep well, Mister Mayor, we’ll see each other soon.

E.

P.S; Neal Cassady to Allen Ginsberg, 1947

“I need you now more than ever, since I've no one else to turn to. I continually feel I am almost free enough to be a real help to you, but, my love can't flourish in my present position & if I forced it now, both you & I would lose. By God, though, every day I miss you more & More.”

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 29/9/20 11:18 pm

Sweet Vita,

Okay, first things first, I’m relieved to hear that your Dad has finally decided to give you more of your freedom back. Courfeyrac told me you were given permission to make a social call - I bet you cried when you were reunited with your friends at the Musain, you soppy fucking idiot. I wish I could’ve been there.

Despite my delight at your increasing freedom, it seems to only have caused further entrapment for your people. As you begin to fly, the public is given a curfew.

What’s happening with Montparnasse and the Children of Liberty? The last I heard, a group of them had been going around throwing red paint on plaques, statues, and portraits of royals.

Did you catch the debate?! What an absolutely insane night. I thought we were well-prepared, and we were, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus Christ, we weren’t expecting Thénardier to be as prepared as he was. We brought up his lack of military record and he claimed that he’d been involved in an undercover mission. Dad hit back by saying that, even so, there should still be records stating he’d been on a “classified assignment” but those don’t seem to exist either.

Thénardier refused to be rattled and declared that he’d had his records destroyed in a peak of mania from his PTSD, saying that he regretted it. Funnily, he said that he had his DD214 form at home that proved his service, it having miraculously survived being burned somehow - not that he’s currently willing to share it…Something doesn’t add up.

So, the rest of the debate went well, and Dad stayed calm under pressure, even when Thénardier brought up Dad’s stint in jail when he was younger. Dad admitted he’d been imprisoned, reminding everyone that this wasn’t news that they hadn’t heard during the first election, and he reiterated that he doesn’t regret his "crime" or time in jail.

Instead, he said he regretted the society and the external governmental factors that landed him and his sister’s family in a position where crime was the only way for them to live. After that, he urged the public to vote for him in November to carry on ensuring that others don’t fall into the same trap and so those already being punished for similar offences can be reprieved.

Fuck, I’m so proud of him for continuing to stand up for himself. It must be exhausting for him to keep having that part of his life thrown at him every time someone wants to discredit him.

My mayoral predecessor injected a lot of cash into the poorest areas of the city to open new grocery stores – the poorest wards only had 1 store per 50,000 people as opposed to the richest areas which had 1 per 10,000. Tomorrow, we’re opening one of the new stores together.

Once both of our schedules allow it, we’ll see each other, Enjolras, I promise. In the words of the Plain White T’s, I’d walk to you if I had no other way.

R.

P.S; Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, 1926

“I have been dull; I have missed you. I do miss you. I shall miss you. And if you don’t believe it, you’re a long-eared owl and ass.”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 4/10/20 1:03 am

I can’t believe I get to see you today! My stomach is already doing flips at the mere idea that I’ll get to see your kind face, hear your unique American cadence, and, perhaps most excitingly, shake your hand.

It’s been so long since that night you snuck into Versailles, and a part of me is worried that you’ll see me, and I won’t be the man you remember. What if the memory of me and those days we spent together is better than the current reality?

During one fit of similar other-thinking, Combeferre sent me an email reminding me to take my Beta Blockers before I thought myself into a panic attack and I calmed the fuck down. He always Knows.

You loved me when you saw me covered in bruises, scrapes, and self-pity. You loved me when you thought I had left you. You loved me when I revealed the emotional baggage regarding my mother’s death. You loved me when you tried to warn me about my father’s plans to arrange a marriage for me. You loved me back then, you’ve loved me since, and, if I’m lucky, you’ll love me today.

I’ve loved you always.

E.

P.S; Alexander Hamilton to John Lauren, 1779.

“You should not have taken advantage of my sensibility to steal into my affections without my consent. But as you have done it and as we are generally indulgent to those we love, I shall not scruple to pardon the fraud you have committed, on condition that for my sake, if not for your own, you will always continue to merit the partiality, which you have so artfully instilled into me.”

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 5/10/20 12:10 am

Jesus Christ, Grantaire, do you ever do something so incredibly stupid and reckless that you feel like the whole world will swallow you whole in a fiery blaze that’s only outranked by your own shame?

Well, imagine that and then imagine it a thousand times worse as your father winds his hand through your hair and yanks you to the ground, pressing your cheek into the cool marble of the floor. And then, when you think he’s going to split open your lip for the eleventh time and break your nose, he stops and decides to take away your freedom again.

Seeing you today/yesterday was a kind of relief that I have never experienced before. My heart jammed into my throat when our fingers touched, and I was close to melting into tears when you looked at me with eyes that said, “we’ll be okay.”

I was right – you do still love me.

The only things that anchored me to the ground and stopped me from being wholly yours were Louis-Joseph in my eyeline and your Council sitting around us. My heart ached and I didn’t think it could ache any more…but then we had dinner and you proved me wrong.

As the plates from our main course were tidied away, in that quiet bustle before dessert was served, you looked me in the eye as Louis talked incessantly to you and the Council chairman about his and Manon’s trip to Australia. You pretended to listen whilst still looking at me and then, slowly, put your index finger to your lips in the way we joked about in Miami.

It was in that very moment, that moment of reaffirmation, that I decided I didn’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not anymore.

You have no idea how close I was to weeping.

On the flight home, as Louis made some sly remark about inviting Princess Josephine to our next visit to America, I finally snapped. It was a small thing that made me snap, granted, but I have been pulled so taut over the last few months – no, years – that the smallest feather would have made me break.

I didn’t tell him about you – I’m not that stupid and I’d never put you in danger like that. What I did instead was scream. I told him to shut up about Josephine and to stop pushing the marriage because I was never going to marry her. I was gay and I would never marry her – not to please the Belgian King, not to please Josephine, and especially not to please him and our father.

I said I would never do anything to please them again and I meant it. I think he knew that, too.

Louis went a shade of purple I’ve never seen him go before. He wanted to hit me as he’d seen our father do to me, I could see it in his cold, panicked eyes. He pushed me against the bathroom door and roughly grabbed my chin, spitting that I should’ve kept my mouth shut. As a gift for the remainder of the journey, he smacked the back of my head into the door, so I had a painful lump and a headache for the next nine hours.

Fast forward to the King and his hand in my hair. Louis had told him everything on the plane, so he was waiting for me as we arrived back. It’s a weird thing to think in this scenario, but I think Dad lashed out not because I had finally admitted to being gay out loud, but because I refused to keep pretending to be straight. I didn't want to keep pretending to be a Perfect Prince.

Tomorrow – or today, if that’s how you like to see it, without consulting the Belgian King, myself, or the Princess about it, he’s planning to tell the press of my engagement to her in a final, manic attempt to trap us both.

He’s kindly promised not to beat me so I could look pretty for the engagement photos.

I’m about to tell the others what’s happening but I thought you ought to know first. Fuck, I should’ve run away with you when I had the chance after all.

All my love and in deepest regret,

E.

P.S; I have no love letter to share. My heart is too heavy to bear reading any more of them.

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 5/10/20 12:22 am

Enjolras,

I don’t have the words to explain how devastated and angry I am for you, and us, right now. We must do something. Anything.

We have to get you out of there. Tell me what I can do to help.

(I sound calm but know that I’m freaking the fuck out right now.)

R.

* * *

Enjolras [a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr](mailto:a.a.enjolras@versailles.fr) 5/10/20 12:38 am

I have an idea…but it could put your position as Mayor in jeopardy. Your father’s re-election campaign could also be destroyed.

You might have to get your father directly involved. It’s a lot to ask so you must be completely sure about it – if you’re not, that’s okay. We’ll think of something else.

I’m finally ready to throw over my man, darling, Virginia.

E.

* * *

Grantaire [grantairevf@jvaljean45.com](mailto:grantairevf@jvaljean45.com) 5/10/20 12:41 am

If living in the White House has taught me anything, it’s to always have an accomplice. I promise to be yours.

Tell me how I can help, and I’ll do it - I'll hold your hand as you walk into the dark.

R.

P.S; Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville-West, 1940

“It’s perfectly peaceful here […] I’d just put flowers in your room. And there you sit with the bombs falling around you. What can one say — except that I love you and I’ve got to live through this strange quiet evening thinking of you, sitting alone.”  
  



	19. A Prince and a Pauper

All was quiet in Valjean’s bedroom except for the sounds of rustling trees in the wind and the chirruping of birds coming through the open window.

The garden was beginning to dull and brown, despite being well-maintained, and was covered in a blanket of crispy leaves in the autumnal colours of a dying fire. If you inhaled deeply, you could detect a hint of green moss, earthy twigs, and the last of the summer heat baking the soil.

Grantaire felt breathless as he paced up and down the room, his hands alternating between clinging to themselves and gesticulating wildly in front of him. He’d just finished explaining to his father Enjolras’ situation, leaving no detail unmentioned - the abuse, the Queen’s suicide, the arranged marriage, Enjolras’ phone mysteriously disappearing – everything. No detail was too big or too small. He’d explained the plan, too, which left his father sitting on the edge of the bed with a concerned, grey pallor as he once again tried to decide who Grantaire needed him to be the most.

“It’s the only plan we’ve got,” Grantaire said, stopping in front of his father and hanging his head sadly. “It’s not an ideal plan…but we can do it fast and it’ll expose King Louis for the man he is. What do you think?”

Obviously, it was a loaded question, which was confirmed as Valjean took a deep breath through his nose and let it out again in an elongated sigh that made him squeeze his eyes shut. Once he’d finished expelling the tense air from his body, he stood, placing his strong and comforting hands on his son’s arms.

“Honestly, Grantaire,” he said, smiling slightly from the corner of his mouth. “You couldn’t have fallen in love with a quiet boy who had an allotment or something, could you?”

Grantaire let out a sharp laugh and rolled his eyes at himself. “You know that’s not my style. Look, I didn’t expect to love him…but now that I do, I don’t want to stop. I’m loving him on purpose because I’ve never felt so happy or sure about anything, not even becoming Mayor. I’ve never hesitated when it came to loving Enjolras…and now he needs us, Dad…and I won’t hesitate.”

“Shhh,” he said as if comforting a small child. In Valjean’s mind, Cosette and Grantaire would always be his babies, no matter how old they were. “It’s okay. I take it you’re fully aware of what the consequences might be?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, standing straighter and becoming surer in his choice. “The truth might make our public angry, but it could set Enjolras and his people free.”

Valjean considered this for a moment and nodded, a fond smile at his lips. “And you really want me to get involved in this?”

“Well, I mean, you’re my Dad and the President,” Grantaire said awkwardly, “if I went ahead with this without telling you, you’d still be expected to make a statement about it. I’m not really asking you to get involved,” he admitted. “I’m telling you that you will be. I’m just sorry it’s so close to the election.”

“It’s okay,” Valjean repeated with a heavy sigh. “I agree the King should be exposed before he gets worse, and there’s certainly enough of his reign to condemn. We’ll tell the world that we won’t stand side by side with dictators…” he nodded again and pulled Grantaire into a tight hug. “It’s the right thing to do both politically and personally. We’ve still got weeks to do damage control for the election, and this will make you happy. How could I ever say no?” He kissed Grantaire’s head and pulled back, pushing him to arm’s length and letting go. When he pulled on his presidential ‘let’s-get-down-to-business’ look as quickly and easily as he did a natural smile, an anticipatory shiver ran down Grantaire’s spine.

“Really?” Grantaire said, his chest beginning to transform from lead to cloud, relief flooding him.

“Yes,” Valjean said firmly. “Tell Enjolras to do what he needs to do and prepare your speech for the aftermath. Tell Musichetta and the media team to meet me in the Situation Room immediately and ask them to bring coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

* * *

By three o'clock in the morning in America, the news was being broadcast on every major network across the country. But by that time, Grantaire was already halfway across the Atlantic with Cosette and Bossuet at his side.

A substantial digital folder had been shared with the world and no-one could pinpoint exactly where it had come from, or who had let the information get out.

It was packed with ten months’ worth of emails and text messages between Grantaire and Enjolras, CCTV footage of them entering, leaving, and swapping rooms in various hotels - footage Bahorel had taken from hotel security after every meeting to stop this exact eventuality from happening. There were photographs from Miami, the BBQ, the night of the PSL dinner and the private party at Courfeyrac’s. There was even a selfie of them lying in the grass, their noses touching with smiles blazing as brightly as the golden early morning sun, half-eaten croque monsieur sandwiches and strawberries acting as accidental halos around their heads.

Amongst the proof of their relationship was a list of anonymous donations Enjolras had made to charities, food banks, and local causes, all with accompanying bank statements. Pages upon pages of minutes from meetings at the Musain had also been photocopied and added.

Then there was the cross-section of photos of Enjolras’ injuries spanning the last six years, as well as his medical records that proved which medications he was on, how many times he’d been treated for broken fingers or ribs, and how many times he’d been stitched up and sent back to the arms of the King. Nestled between the records were two particularly harrowing audio recordings that Grantaire didn’t have the stomach to listen to. Cosette agreed that it was nothing he should want or need to hear after listening to them herself through her pastel pink headphones. Even though much of the audio was muffled by someone’s trouser pocket, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in a hallway and the crack of bone against marble was enough to make her feel ill.

Everything had been meticulously collected, dated, and labelled by Enjolras himself and his friends over the years, and now it had been laid bare for all to see. Every ugly chapter, every counteraction they made against the King, and every beautiful, tender, and private word Enjolras and Grantaire had shared with one another.

“You’re trending in America and France,” Cosette told him as she scrolled through Twitter. “The hashtag ‘FREE THE DUKE’ is the third trending topic and ‘ENJOLTAIRE’ is the fourth.”

“Thénardier has already jumped in to smear both you and the president,” Bossuet interrupted, reading through various headlines. “He’s claiming that neither of you can be trusted to lead when it comes to political alliances and diplomatic relations.”

“It’s almost an exact half and half split between people who think your relationship is a wonderful thing and those who think it’s deplorable,” Cosette said. “Celebrities and other world leaders haven’t been shy about sharing their opinions either.”

“People are taking to the streets in protest across France,” Bossuet informed them. “They’re marching for justice for themselves, Queen Marguerite, and Enjolras. So many are hailing them as martyrs.”

“People are taking to the streets in America too,” Cosette added. “Many are more concerned that you’ve been dating in secret than the abuse of power and the abuse in general…but still. There’s an outpouring of support for you from your people in D.C, and there’s even a huge swarm of people in Texas defending you, Grantaire. _Texas_!”

Grantaire felt like he was watching a particularly quick tennis match as he flicked his attention between the two of them and soon found himself experiencing something akin to vertigo with accompanying nausea. He threw his hands in the air and roared.

“ _Enough!_ I don’t want to hear any more!” he told them, lowering his hands again. “How can I think of something to say to the King when you’re both firing information at me?! Right now, I don’t care about the public. They can wait another day for answers – the King can’t. Now, please stop and let me work.”

Cosette and Bossuet shared a sheepish look and fell silent, the three of them turning their attentions back to their screens. None of their email inboxes had been so busy, neither had their Twitter mentions or their text messages. Their phones rang every few minutes, prompting them all to turn them to aeroplane mode and tuck them into their pockets.

By the time they arrived in Paris, it was lunchtime and not even the light spattering of autumn rain could dampen the chants of the crowds lining the streets.

As Grantaire emerged from the plane in his smartest suit, his hair tidied, fully anticipating a deluge of paparazzi, cameras, and journalists, he instead found himself being met by a small group that had gathered at the bottom of the plane’s stairs. His pace faltered on the last few steps when he realised who had gathered, their beautiful faces coming into focus in his exhausted eyes: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, Feuilly, and a tall man with the same pale complexion as Enjolras, dressed in black and holding a matching umbrella over his head, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“You all came,” Grantaire said absently, his knees buckling underneath him from fatigue, relief, and fear.

Combeferre and Bahorel lurched forward to catch him. “Of course we did,” they said in unison.

“Where’s Enjolras?” Grantaire asked them urgently. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“He’s at the palace being watched by my band of thieves,” said Montparnasse, smiling as he caught Grantaire’s gaze. “We’ve not met but I’ve heard plenty about you.”

Grantaire turned to look at him, his mouth puckering and hands itching as he recognised him from the stories Enjolras had told. Anger had swallowed his heart as he jumped forward, fists bared. “ _You!_ You were the one who betrayed him at the Storming - how dare you come here!”

Before Grantaire could strike Montparnasse’s infuriatingly pretty face, his two human crutches were pulling him back with the help of Bossuet as Cosette. Jehan jumped in front of Montparnasse to try and block his path. In response, Montparnasse did nothing but smirk and throw his cigarette butt to the ground.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, raising his voice as the crowd in the distance became more vocal. “It was Héloïse. All I did was leave him there when I got wind she was ratting us out.”

Grantaire’s mouth hung open and he tried to launch himself at Montparnasse again, only to be stopped once more. “You fucking knew it was happening and you just left him there even though it was your idea?!”

“He left us all there,” Feuilly pointed out.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Grantaire snapped.

Montparnasse cocked an eyebrow at him. “It would’ve taken ages to find everyone amongst the crowd and no-one had their phones on them,” he said easily. “I did what I had to do. It’s called self-preservation, Grantaire, and I suggest you get some if you insist on meeting with my uncle.”

He wasn’t in the habit of doing it, but Grantaire found himself spitting at Montparnasse’s feet before he could stop himself. “Did that bastard beat the living shit out of you too? I fucking hope so.”

Everyone turned their attention to Montparnasse, all of them secretly wanting to know the answer as well. But, to their dismay, he smirked and began to walk towards the waiting car.

* * *

The entire group was shepherded through the gates of Versailles by armed guards who were gladly using the ‘by any means necessary’ instruction the King had given them. One guard smacked a protestor with the hilt of his gun – but the gang of treasonous conspirators and Cosette were moved on quickly so they couldn’t reach the poor soul, the gates clanking to a deafening close behind them as the crowd began to shout in outrage.

The Palace of Versailles felt like a ghost of its former self.

At least half the staff had quit or been fired; those who remained had done so out of fear, force, or choice because they were as power-hungry as the King.

Their shoes echoed along the corridor as they were brought to the entrance of the Hall of Mirrors where Enjolras was sitting on a velvet ottoman – a bruise beginning to bloom around his eye and several smaller ones on his throat.

Grantaire’s dress shoes carried him noisily across the floor as he sped forward, the guards who had escorted them stiffening and preparing to follow if needed. They let him and Enjolras fall against one another in a series of relieved and apprehensive sobs, Grantaire holding him so tightly he couldn’t be completely sure that Enjolras wouldn’t snap in half. In return, Enjolras buried his face deep in the crook of Grantaire’s neck.

Behind them, Courfeyrac let out an inappropriate wolf-whistle that landed him with two jabs to the ribs – one from Jehan and one from Combeferre.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Enjolras murmured into Grantaire’s warm skin.

“I wanted to,” Grantaire assured him. “If you’re going down, I’m going down with you. I couldn’t let you go alone.”

“None of us could,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “I mean…we couldn’t exactly let you be the only one who got arrested for treason, could we?”

“Do you really think that might happen?” Cosette asked.

Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire but their hands found one another like pins to a magnet. “The King will try, but-“

The doors to the great hallway were thrown open with such force everyone jumped back, including the guards. From inside the familiar grand room, the King’s voice echoed off the glass, china, and marble surfaces.

“You have lost me Belgium!” he ranted. “All that money we owed them would’ve been forgiven with your marriage to that snivelling woman…Get in here and leave your vipers behind except for the American! He’s going to get what’s coming to him too.”

Holding their heads high and smiling nervously at each other, Enjolras and Grantaire began to approach the Hall of Mirrors. Behind them, a chorus of footsteps followed, much to their surprise. The two guards let the others walk in too, realising they would be outnumbered if they tried to stop them but harshly punished for not following the King’s orders. As a result, the guards ran down the corridor, not to be seen in the palace again.

“I told you two to come alone!” The King bellowed, his face a unique shade of puce that made him look as if every blood vessel in his face and neck had burst. “Guards, remove these traitors from my palace!”

When no one came, Enjolras smirked as he watched his father march towards the doors to find his guards, revelling in the trace of fear in the King as he was left wanting and realising he was slowly being abandoned.

“Don’t you smirk at me, boy!” the King cried, raising his hand above Enjolras’ face. As quickly as he brought his arm to the air, his friends jumped in the way – their faces cold and determined. “ _Unfortunately_ , he is my son,” the King spat. “And I will do what I like to him. You cannot protect him forever.” He brought down his hand sharply, but it made fierce contact with Combeferre’s cheek instead.

“Maybe not,” Combeferre said, calmly pushing his glasses up his nose, trying not to show how much his face was aching already. “But we’ll die trying if we have to because he did the same for us.”

The King narrowed his eyes and scratched at the regrowth of his beard – he seemed to have aged twenty years in the hours since the leak had first been brought to his attention.

“You let him corrupt you, Combeferre,” he said with a sigh. “Firing you was surprisingly difficult - I knew the potential you possessed. With your intelligence and analytical mind, you could’ve gone on to do great things...” the King paused and smiled to himself. “It’s not too late, you know. You could come back as an advisor and become one of the most powerful men in Europe.”

Combeferre’s mouth twitched as he suppressed his laughter. Everyone else was either confused or stunned into disbelieving silence.

“I did do great things here,” Combeferre told Louis-Francois honestly, “and I will continue to keep doing great things away from here. You cannot tempt me back with money and power, especially not after the things I’ve seen.”

“You can’t even afford to pay him if he did come back,” Enjolras said, smiling.

The King bristled and took a breath in through his nose, his nostrils flaring like a dragon about to blow. “We could’ve cleared many of our debts with your marriage,” he grunted, clearly hurt by this more than being exposed for his financial failings, covering up the truth about his wife’s death, or causing grievous and actual bodily harm to his son on a semi-regular basis. “Do you have any idea of how close we were to starting an Empire?”

Enjolras clicked his tongue against his teeth and gave Grantaire a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “They are your debts, not ours, and it was not my responsibility to clear your debts for you by putting myself into an unhappy marriage.” He took a quick pause to moisten his mouth with his tongue. “How did you ever think you’d be able to achieve an empire when you owed so much to so many? Your plans were a power-hungry fantasy and nothing more.”

“What did you say to me?” the King said, snarling as he stepped closer, undeterred by the wall of revolutionaries surrounding Enjolras. “You’re lucky I don’t have the lot of you arrested!”

“You couldn’t,” Enjolras said. “You’ve arrested so many lately that the prisons are full. You’ve worked many of the prison officers into the ground and they’re quitting faster than you can replace them.”

“Not to mention that he didn’t actually do anything illegal,” Grantaire pointed out before the King could answer back. “None of us did.”

The King frowned but stood taller and elongated his neck so he could retain what dignity he had left. “You’ve caused an uprising!” he cried out. “You’ve all violated your non-disclosure agreements!”

“Actually,” Courfeyrac said, holding up his index finger, “you can’t prove we did.”

“Exactly,” Enjolras continued. “I sent my own private correspondences and images to my own friends, all of whom were already aware of what was going on and had signed NDAs. But…they didn’t violate their agreements. They didn’t do anything with my files…you can’t prove it. They don’t know how it all got leaked,” he said innocently, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not our fault if your servers aren’t infallible and some… _nefarious_ …hacker took all that information from one of us and leaked it to the world.”

From the back of the group, Montparnasse grinned, his eyes sparkling under the chaos of it all. “Yes, Uncle,” he said, pretending to be as prim and proper as his snitch sister. “It’s not their fault. If you wanted to make the palace a safe haven for information, you really should’ve put more thought into your cybersecurity. Any old genius might have been able to hack into the palace, into the White House, or into any one of these civilians’ computers. I don't think it would be that hard to do if _someone_ wanted to stir up trouble.”

If you were looking closely, you might have seen King Louis’ eye twitch before he ran towards Montparnasse who stayed stock-still, smiling as smugly as Enjolras was.

“You!” he thundered, smacking his fist against the wall. “Just you wait until I tell your father about this…”

Montparnasse laughed and snorted in the way Enjolras was wont to do, making Grantaire wonder if the circumstances around them had been different, would the two cousins be friends as well as family?

“What can my father do that you can’t?” Montparnasse asked with a shrug. “You’re the King, aren’t you? Nothing is supposed to be beyond your ability. Besides, as already pointed out, you’ve got no proof that I was involved…or that any one of us was involved. You’re just going to have to let this one go, _uncle_.”

By now, the King’s fists and jaws were clenched taut, and his pompous brows were low on his forehead. The blood had begun to drain from his face, and he was gradually becoming as white as the porcelain he kept so secure.

“I will do no such thing!” he cried, spittle flying from his mouth and landing on Montparnasse’s cheek. Montparnasse calmly wiped it away. “You have all made a mockery of me and this institution!”

“You did that yourself,” Enjolras said easily. “You did that through how you treated me, how you treated Maman, and most importantly, how you treated your people.” He sighed and tucked his hair behind his ears – a casual, care-free motion that Grantaire found diametrically oppositional to the situation. “Then again, this institution was already broken when you took it over…you just spent the last twenty years killing it completely. I could almost accept, and even _respect_ , that you destroyed the monarchy if you hadn’t done it in the worst way possible.”

“No!” he shouted, his voice wavering slightly, but only those who had worked and lived with the King noticed. “It was you! It was _you_ who was disobedient. It was _you_ who turned his back on the world given to you and made a mockery of it! It was _you_ who tarnished the name of de France and Versailles by exposing your dirty secret to the world…you two, having a sordid affair behind my back and then forcing the public and press to read your disgusting little _love letters_. You couldn’t behave like a prince should, could you? You couldn’t have done one thing right in your life and kept your mouth shut!”

Enjolras and Grantaire glanced at one another and shrugged. “No,” they said together.

“I never wanted to be a Prince or a Duke,” Enjolras told him, helplessly. “I never wanted it and I never asked for it, so why would I shut up and get on with it when I hated it to my core? I pretended to be straight for years and I had had enough…enough of it all. I’m glad the world knows…but, as said before, you can’t prove that myself or anyone else leaked those emails.” He grinned, satisfied. “We’re victims too.”

“Victims?!” The word dripped from his tongue as if he were trying to spit out poison. “You’re not victims! How dare you align yourselves with me!” He took a step forward and Bahorel instinctively put his arm out to hold Enjolras back whilst Feuilly jumped in front of Bahorel, holding his wrist.

Bossuet and Cosette went for Grantaire whilst the others bristled and stood taller, ready to block the King’s path if he took another step.

“I don’t align myself with you,” Enjolras told him proudly. “I never had, and I never would. The only person I align myself with is me…and now that’s who I get to be every day. I’m finally free of you and I will not rest until the rest of France is free from you too.”

“We won’t rest either,” Feuilly said in enthusiastic agreement. “You’re outnumbered.”

The King frowned heavy and hard. “You’re an inconsequential thing,” he said coldly. “I don’t even know who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“Feuilly is one of the hardest working people I know. He’s my friend and he’s just one of the sixty-seven million people you’ve let down or completely fucked over,” Enjolras said fiercely. “You don’t need to know the people to treat them with dignity and respect. No-one in this country is inconsequential – just look at what they can do. Look at the Bastille. When you open your windows and doors, listen to their voices and their cries of power. Those _inconsequential_ voices have weight.”

For several moments, the King was silent. Half of the group stood staring at him with stony faces; the other half looked nervously between themselves as they anticipated the worst.

He nodded slowly and gave a saccharine grin. “You’re right, Aurélien. There is one regret I have regarding my attitude to the public,” his grin turned into something evil as he got as close to Enjolras’ face as his friends would let him. “I regret having _you_ , and most crucially, I regret marrying your common, duplicitous bitch of a mother. I’m glad she’s dead…you deserve the same fate.”

Around the hall, the air dropped a few degrees, and Enjolras’ eyes seemed to flash black as he bared his teeth like a dog ready to attack. Montparnasse watched on with a macabre glee as Enjolras fought through the grasps of his friends. The King flinched as he moved – even after all this, he still half-expected that his son wouldn’t fight back.

“Don’t,” Grantaire said quietly, diving in front of Enjolras and placing his hands on his shoulders. “He’s not worth it.”

Enjolras huffed, his face as flushed as his father’s had been when they arrived. “But he…”

“I know,” Grantaire said, maintaining eye contact. “Babe, if you lay even a finger on him, he’s got grounds to arrest you for assault.”

“Yes, listen to your little American Pretender, why don’t you?” the King said, waving a nonchalant hand. “It’s not as if he got you into this mess in the first place.”

Enjolras pushed against Grantaire, but he stayed firm, bracing himself against Enjolras like he did Cosette’s punches at the gym. Enjolras was about to argue with both his father and Grantaire about the latest unjust remark, but Cosette got there first.

“What the fuck did you just call my brother?” she asked.

Since Grantaire was busy talking down Enjolras, King Louis was glad of the new target to spit his vitriol at. “I called him an American Pretender,” he said proudly. “He’s not a real American and he’s not really the President’s son. Plus, like every other Mexican, he’s taking American jobs from actual Americans.”

Grantaire barely took any notice but Enjolras, Cosette, and everybody else did.

“Come to think of it,” the King continued, “you’re not really the President’s daughter either, are you? See, this is what happens when you let outsiders in and put them in positions of power. They ruin the reputations of their institutions and bring their names into disrepute.”

Cosette was five foot two of pure rage and she stomped forward with purpose, chased down by Jehan and Courfeyrac. “Oh, I’ve had enough of this bitch,” she said, wagging her finger in the direction of the King. “He’s not Mexican, he’s Argentinian _and_ American.”

“And proud of both!” Grantaire interjected before going back to calming down Enjolras.

“Yeah!” she agreed, whooping. “Even if he were from Mexico, it wouldn’t make a difference. We are _both_ the President’s children. We’re his children in the eyes of ourselves, the President, and the law. Your racism, xenophobia, prejudice, and discrimination will not be tolerated here or in America. You’ve not only lost the support of Belgium, but you’ve lost America too, and many more will follow, I’m sure of it.”

“That doesn’t frighten me,” the King insisted.

Jehan laughed. “A few minutes ago, you were literally raging about losing an allyship with Belgium,” he pointed out. “You’re frightened. People who aren’t scared don’t think to mention it.”

“You’re the ones who are scared!” King Louis insisted. “You’re the ones who had to come in together like an army!”

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras scoffed, finally calm enough to hold his head high once more. “That’s rich coming from the man who had the actual army standing guard outside his house,” he sighed and took a step back, the others following his lead. “Speaking of which, I think it’s time I left this house, don’t you? Neither of us want me here.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Aurélien,” the King warned. “You could stay, live in comfort forever, marry a nice girl…what about that English Princess you mentioned? Life will be much easier for you…but if you continue to disobey…”

“Then what?” Enjolras challenged. “You’ve got nothing on me anymore. I will not stay, and I will not marry a nice girl and pretend to be someone I’m not. It’s time I left,” Enjolras reiterated. “I renounce you and I renounce my titles. I wash my hands of this life.”

Behind him, his friends smiled and Grantaire slipped his hand into his once again and squeezed it.

“No!” the King said, laughing. “You can leave, and you can renounce me, if you wish. However, I refuse to disinherit you of your titles.” He grinned wildly, the dark patches under his eyes becoming more prominent. “You will keep them as a permanent reminder of who you are and where you’ve come from.”

“I do remember,” Enjolras said. “I am Enjolras Beaumont and I am my mother’s son; nobody else’s.”

“You are an ungrateful, hateful child,” the King told him, spittle clinging to the corners of his thin mouth. “Get out. Pack what you own and leave – I never want to see your spiteful little face again!”

Enjolras smiled, a sensation of unexpected peace flowing through his veins and into each limb. “Good. You’ll be happy to know that I’m already packed,” he turned to go but stopped, his hand lingering on the door frame. “Just because I’m leaving, that doesn’t mean this is all over. It’s just the beginning. I promise you that the tide will turn and drown you, and Louis too.”

“Is that a threat, boy?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

So, with that final word hanging in the air, Enjolras Beaumont strode out of the Hall of Mirrors, hand in hand with Grantaire, and side by side with his friends to retrieve his suitcases from an antechamber.

He had arrived a prince and had left with his dignity intact through the front gates of Versailles as a pauper.

They were greeted by a heady mix of cheers, boos, chants, and singing – it was all a bit much for Enjolras who tried to close his ears to the noise and focus his sights on what was in front of him. Some members of the crowd got too close and, instinctively, Bahorel and Bossuet were assuming crowd control.

Cameras from the press and the public flashed like they were constant sparks caused by gunpowder, dazzling their eyes and making them feel queasy, but still, they walked on, ignoring every reporter who asked for a comment. There would be time for that later.

It was eerily quiet by the time they all got to the car, and, without discussing what would happen next, they all said a teary goodbye to Enjolras, hugging him tightly, wishing they could go with him. Even Montparnasse gave him a reluctant embrace.

“Good luck,” he said, pulling away from his cousin. “Try not to cause another national incident and political upheaval.”

Enjolras laughed. “I won’t. Well, not for a while anyway,” he grinned. “Thank you, Montparnasse. For everything.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m disappearing for a while too. There’s never been a worse time to be a royal.” He flashed his teeth at Enjolras.

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras responded with a smile, watching Montparnasse pull his umbrella low over his face as he walked briskly back in the direction they came and around the corner out of sight.

“How long will you be away?” Feuilly asked, close to tears. It was a question they all wanted to know the answer to, but nobody had the heart to ask it yet.

Enjolras shrugged and shook his head regretfully. “I don’t know. There’s so much going on and so much to organise that it’s impossible to be sure,” he admitted. “But I will come back, and you guys will come and visit when you can, won’t you? I’ll talk to you every day – just you try and stop me.”

“We know,” Jehan assured him. “That doesn’t mean we won’t miss you anyway.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Combeferre implored him, coming over to kiss Enjolras’ forehead.

“And don’t think you can walk around unprotected just because the threat at home is gone,” Bahorel added.

Bossuet, Cosette, and Grantaire all grinned at one another as they loaded Enjolras’ suitcases into the back of the car.

“Don’t worry,” Bossuet told the group being left behind. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“We’ll bring him back in once piece and scandal-free,” Grantaire promised, wrapping an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders.

“He’ll be in one piece,” Cosette confirmed, smiling as she closed the car boot. “Scandal free might be a bit harder to do.”

They said their final goodbyes and slid into the large car, followed by Courfeyrac who insisted on coming with Enjolras for a little while, just until he was settled.

Enjolras, teary and tired, stuck his head and hands out of the window from the back seat and waved as his friends ran alongside the car, waving back at him until the vehicle picked up speed as it turned into the main road.

When Cosette gasped and asked the driver to pull over, they had only just entered Paris. Enjolras and Grantaire were already half-asleep on one another, lifting their weary heads with a strangled noise of confusion at the back of their throats.

“Look!” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt and jumping out of the car. The boys followed her and looked to where her slender finger was pointing.

Plastered across the side of a building was a colourful mural of three figures. Enjolras and Grantaire’s faces on either side of the mural, looking at one another in profile with the soft figure of a woman dressed in white standing between them, her hands upturned to show the world her empty palms. Below them, someone had spray-painted words Grantaire was intimately familiar with:

**ALWAYS HAVE AN ACCOMPLICE.**

“It’s beautiful,” Grantaire said, forgetting how tired he was.

Enjolras stared at it, speechless, making Courfeyrac envelop him in a soothing hug.

“They’re on your side,” he told Enjolras quietly, grinning. “Everyone’s on your side.”

“No,” Enjolras said, smiling from the corners of his mouth. “I’m on theirs...the only difference is that they know it now.”

* * *

Touching down in America and stepping through the doors of the White House felt like a breath of fresh air. Yes, people were crowding the streets like they were in France. People were still angry, and people were still talking about them…but it was a different kind of energy that Enjolras accepted with open arms.

Just as Enjolras’ friends had been waiting for Grantaire when he arrived, Grantaire’s family were waiting for Enjolras. Valjean, Fantine, Marius, Musichetta, and Joly had all been loitering in the hallway, peering out of windows, and obsessively checking their phones, all of them falling into relieved laughter, embraces, and words when they came through the door unscathed.

“Thank you for letting me stay, Mr President,” Enjolras said after being acquainted with everyone officially. “Most importantly, thank you for agreeing to help me, and, by extension, France.”

Valjean smiled kindly and took Enjolras’ suitcases so he could take them to Grantaire’s room. “You’re important to my son, so you’re important to me too. I’m more than happy to help.”

“Even if it might destroy your campaign?” Enjolras asked, following Valjean with Grantaire at his heels.

“We won’t let it be destroyed,” Grantaire assured him. “I’ve still got my speech and statement to read and Dad’s got his as well.”

“When are you making your speech?” Enjolras asked Grantaire, standing awkwardly on the precipice of Grantaire’s bedroom, watching Valjean carefully place his heavy suitcases at the end of the bed.

Valjean rolled up his shirt sleeves. “It will be tomorrow,” he told him, gently nudging Enjolras into the room. “It’s been a long day…both of you get some rest – you’re going to need energy for tomorrow. I love you.” He paused on his way out like he’d forgotten something. “That goes for you too, Enjolras. I love you as well.” He was met with a silent, ashen look from Enjolras and a pair of blue glistening eyes. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll have food ready for when you both wake up.”

As it dawned on Enjolras that this was the first time he’d heard a parent say they loved him in over six years, and the first time a father had said it to him in his lifetime, Enjolras, over-exhausted and more emotional than he initially thought, finally broke into years of suppressed sobs, his body letting itself crumple to the floor in a heap.

* * *

Instead of making the speech at home, Grantaire, at the last minute, decided to make it from his office. A minimal camera crew was setting up their equipment and the sound lady was clipping a microphone to Grantaire’s neatly pressed lapel, placing it a little beneath his American flag pin. Another woman swooped in to blot and powder his face, then did the same for Enjolras, being careful not to cover the bruises that had finished forming on his face.

“Are you nervous?” Enjolras asked. It was probably a stupid question, but it was all he could think to say.

Grantaire smiled slightly, casting his eyes over his typed speech, and picking up a pen to strike a phrase from it, rewording it in the gap between the lines. “A little…but the sooner it’s done, the better, right? It’s five minutes and then we can start working towards going back to normal.”

“Do you really think we can go back to normal after this?” Enjolras wondered out loud.

“Yes,” Grantaire admitted. “It’ll be a better normal though…or at least one we’ll have to get used to.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Enjolras said. “It’ll be nice to see what life outside Versailles is like.”

Grantaire beamed at him. “It’ll almost be the same…you just won’t have to wear any more ridiculous fucking outfits that make you look as if you’ve stepped out of that Sofia Coppola movie.”

“You know,” Enjolras began, grinning, “I’m surprised the King even let them into the palace to film that movie. He hated it.”

“Of course he did,” Grantaire trailed off, distracted by a crew member telling him there were two minutes until air. Behind the camera, Cosette gave them both a thumbs up and a broad smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to say anything?” he said quickly. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“I’m sure,” Enjolras said, smoothing out his jacket. “When I’m ready to do it, I want to do it in France…I don’t want the people to think I’ve abandoned them.”

“They would never think that,” Grantaire said assuredly. His smiled wavered as the camera crew began to count down. He quickly chugged half a glass of water to stop his tongue from sticking to the roof of his mouth as he went live to America.

* * *

**FIRST SON OF THE UNITED STATES, GRANTAIRE VALJEAN-FAUCHELEVENT’S ADDRESS FROM THE WILSON BUILDING, 8 TH OCTOBER 2020.**

Good morning,

I have, and will always be an American. Though I was not born here, and neither were the couple that brought me into this world, I am an American because you have made me one.

Being raised in Texas by the care system in my early years made me American. Being adopted by the President, who at the time, was Mayor of Baltimore, made me American. And so, I was raised by this country and its people when Argentina and my birth parents were no longer the appropriate or safe option.

My sister made me an American at the age of six when she accepted me into her life with the simple offer of a strawberry lollipop. My father, your President, made me an American by opening his home, his arms, and his heart to me.

He showed me how life should be and what it could be like in the future, and I was raptured. I still am.

You cheered for me when I first spoke to you five years ago during my father’s campaign and I will never forget the awe, the pride, or the sense of belonging I felt. I was young, full of hope, and wished that you would never stop cheering for me, and others like me.

It was you who let me embody the American dream: the boy who had come from a troubled, broken, and abusive home, the boy who came from a poor town in Argentina and grew up speaking two languages, who was brought into an unconventional, blended, and caring family, and allowed me to make the White House my home. From that moment, I vowed that I would never let you down, and, I hope, that I haven’t.

A few years ago, I met a Prince, or as he’ll correct me, a Duke. He was uptight, cold, dull, and unbearable to be around, and he too had been raised by his country. It took a while but the unexpected happened. He warmed up, I put my own prejudice aside, and found him to be exactly the opposite of what I described to you. What I discovered instead, was that I loved him.

Because I love you too, America, I believe you deserve the truth.

The truth is that Enjolras and I have been together for seven months. Not long, in the grand scheme of things, but our rivalry, so cleverly hidden from the public for years, had been leading us to this relationship. At least, that’s how it feels in my heart - the same heart that feels a calling to this country.

This whole time, we’ve been concerned about what our relationship will mean to our families, our countries, our positions, and the people who looked up to us. We have struggled every day over what it would mean for our futures and whether this relationship was sustainable. We’ve both agonised over how we should tell the world or whether we even should. Not only was our relationship taboo, but King Louis and his hold on Enjolras and his country was a heart-breaking obstacle.

We do not condone the King’s actions in his physical and emotional abuse of Enjolras, nor do we condone the emotional manipulation of the Queen and how he covered up her death. She deserved better than to be treated like she was nothing when she meant so much to so many. We do not condone the iron-fist rule, his treatment of his public, and his fall into a dictatorship. In the coming days, the President himself will be making a statement about the political implications of the King’s actions.

For now, I want you to know that this was not the way we wanted the world to discover our relationship, and I’m sure it wasn’t the way Enjolras wanted the world to discover the dark truth behind the golden gates of Versailles. But this is the way it happened, so we must make the most of it.

The truth is that I love him, and, as America has taught me over the last twenty years, love is one of the most powerful feelings and forces we have at our disposal. You can never love too much, you can never love too quickly, and you can never love too freely. After all, it was the love shown to me by America that helped to make me an American.

As a result, I want America to know that Enjolras is my choice. I love him and he loves me too, and I choose him, and ask him, to stand at my side as I go on loving America and serving you.

I am the First Son of the United States and the Mayor of the District of Columbia and I am bisexual.

Like many others in this country, I was initially scared to say so, and now, I speak to those people directly: I see you, I hear you, I am with you, I am one of you. For as long as I have a place in the White House and in this office as mayor, so will you. I promise you that history will remember us.

I am aware that many in this District will be concerned about what they have read in recent days and will be questioning whether I am suited to represent you as Mayor. To you, I say that I will keep doing my best to prove to you that you made the right choice in electing me. I take your concerns into consideration, and if you would like reassurance to any specific questions or issues, I invite you to email me or drop by the office where I’m happy to give you the answers you deserve.

If I can ask just one thing of you, America, it’s this: please do not let my actions or what you have read influence your decision at your polling stations next month. My father, your President, has proven himself to be the leader and the champion that this country deserves and I hope you won’t let my relationship get in the way of four more years of growth, progress, and affluence. Please do not let us fall backwards because you do not agree with me. You are not voting for me as President, so when you enter that booth, please only think about my father and his policies.

Now, I turn to the media and ask them not to focus on me or Enjolras whilst we come to terms with all of this ourselves. Please do not use us as a distraction instead of focusing on the things that are important. Talk about policy, the campaign, and the millions of people, livelihoods, and futures across America who will be affected by the choices the American people will make.

And finally, I would like to remind you all that I am still the son you helped to raise. I still remember the pride you had in me and how you cheered for me because you saw a future in me, and my family, you liked. I hope you still have that pride in me, and I hope, for the next month, I can continue to be the First Son and Mayor you deserve; both in actions and words. After that, I hope that when Inauguration Day comes in January, you'll let me carry on for another four years.

It will be one of the greatest honours of my life, and I will never stop trying to do you proud or trying to be worthy of the love you show in abundance.


	20. Election Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am but an ignorant Brit and I'm gonna level with you - I know little about how American elections work and I still struggle to wrap my head around it...so please, roll with the punches! :D

_Three Weeks Later_

The fourteen-year-old on the other side of the desk picked absently at the plaster on his finger before swallowing the rest of the cold, bitter coffee with a wince. He hated it, and Grantaire knew it, but he still asked for one every time he came by and Grantaire willingly made it, indulging in the boy’s desire to seem more grown-up than he was.

“Thanks for letting me come by again,” he said, picking up his rucksack from the floor. “I know you’re busy…”

Grantaire shrugged and smiled fondly, wondering if his Dad had felt this same warmth when Fantine came to him when he was mayor, or when he himself confided in him in a café in Texas over orange juice. “Hey, you’re welcome here any time; I’ve told you before. I’ll always make time for people like us - we’ve got to stick together and help each other out from time to time.”

The boy nodded, smiling sheepishly as he fiddled with the strap of his bag. “It’s just nice to talk to someone about this stuff, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire answered, reaching out to take the boy’s mug so he could wash it. “School’s tough as it is, and it can be a real nightmare when you come out. I get it and I’m always happy to listen…but next time you come, I want you to bring your board and teach me how to do that laser flip you were telling me about,” he grinned.

“You?” the boy scoffed, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Nah. You’d break your ankle, old man.”

“I’m only twenty-five!” Grantaire said, pretending to be deeply offended. “I’ll give anything a go once – even breaking my ankle whilst attempting a laser flip.”

“Alright, you’re on!” the boy said, grinning broadly. He said goodbye and ran from the office so he wouldn’t be late for dinner at home, immediately bumping into a woman in a cigarette pantsuit in the corridor. She was followed by two younger, wiry figures. “Oh, sorry, Miss Julia…I didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay,” she said kindly. “Is he in there?”

“Yeah!”

“Thanks,” she said as the boy continued to exit the building without looking back or making it known he’d heard her.

Back in his office, Grantaire leapt into his chair at the sound of her voice, quickly straightening out his laptop, his files, and making sure his mini bisexual pride flag was prominent in his desk tidy. He ran his fingers through his hair and checked his reflection in the glass of a photo frame – the two empty coffee mugs forgotten on his bookcase.

Éponine had barely stepped over the threshold when Grantaire cocked a thick eyebrow and said, in a low drawl that mimicked Éponine’s own, “I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

“I take it you heard the news,” she said with a simper, sitting in the still-warm chair opposite Grantaire. The two figures who had come with her lurked awkwardly in the doorway, looking at one another unsurely. Their clothes seemed to be hanging off their slim frames.

“Of course. I think missing it would’ve been impossible,” Grantaire said, his voice tightly clipped. “What made you switch allegiances again?”

Éponine removed a file that was tucked neatly under her arm and threw it on the table as an answer.

Grantaire eyed the folder suspiciously before pulling it closer to him. “What’s this?” He suddenly looked up at the two strangers as if he’d only just noticed them. “Who are they?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise not to get mad again,” she fired back, half-teasing and half-serious.

“I mean, I’m still pretty mad at you anyway,” he admitted, folding his hands over the file without opening it. “I don’t think it could get worse. Tell me.”

Éponine took a breath and spoke the truth without frills, bows, pomp, or circumstance. “Thénardier is my father.”

Grantaire choked on his own spittle and frowned. He felt as if he’d been winded and disoriented whilst the two strangers stifled a laugh at his indignation. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

“I didn’t want to tell you before, but you’ll understand soon,” she said apologetically. “This is Azelma and Gavroche…my siblings.”

Grantaire looked between the two visitors, his mouth hanging open – his jaw was so used to him speaking and running his mouth off, even in surprise he seemed unable to close it. Enjolras often teased him about the way he slept with his mouth partially open.

The girl did look quite a bit like Éponine, most notably in the shape of their foreheads, the pointed curve in their top lip, and the almond shape of their eyes. The boy, however, had a closer resemblance to their father and had a wild air about him that made Grantaire think he delighted in making mischief. The siblings waved at him and Grantaire waved inelegantly back.

“Obviously, Thénardier wasn’t a good father…Perhaps you, me, Cosette, and Enjolras should get together and form the ‘Shitty Biological Dad Club,’” she joked, her smile falling when she noticed that Grantaire wasn’t about to laugh with her. “He was a thief and crook as well as someone who neglected his kids. Our mom was the same, only she was a little more Cinderella’s Evil Stepmother. ‘Zelma and Gav were only little at the time – they couldn’t help themselves or stand up for themselves. I don’t want to get into the details about what was going on, but one day I’d had enough, and I ran out of the house to find help. A police officer, a kind stranger, anyone who could help, really.”

Grantaire tilted his head – his mind jumping ahead. “Let me guess, the person you found was Javert? That’s why he knew what was going on at the cookout.”

“Yes,” Éponine said easily. “By the time I’d found Officer Javert and brought him back to arrest Thénardier and Mom, everyone had gone and so had most of their clothes. No one could find my parents, but most importantly, no one could find Azelma and Gavroche either. It was like they had melted into the shadows.”

“We essentially had,” Azelma said. “Mom and Dad kept saying we were going on an adventure, but it didn’t feel like one. When I asked why Éponine wasn’t coming too, they said it was because she’d run away since we annoyed her too much.”

“I don’t remember too much about it,” Gavroche admitted. “If ‘Zelma hadn’t told me stories about her, I probably would have forgotten that I had another sister.”

Éponine looked down at her knees, trying to stop herself from revealing too many emotions at once – relief, sorrow, joy, regret. They were her private emotions and, even though she was recounting the story, she only wanted Grantaire to know the facts – not her feelings.

“Eventually, I kind of gave up on ever finding them,” she continued. “It wasn’t until Thénardier got into politics that he got back in contact with me. He’d been watching my career and thought he could use it to his own advantage…that’s when he gave me an ultimatum.”

Grantaire sat forward in his chair. He had lots he wanted to say but he decided to listen instead and clamp his large mouth shut for once in his life.

“Help him become President and he’d let me have custody of them,” she said.

At this, Azelma raised her hand slightly. “Okay but we’re technically too old for anyone to have custody of us.”

Gavroche tried to push Azelma’s hand back to her side, talking from the side of his mouth as if that would mask his speech and stop anyone else from hearing him. “Shut up! Don’t talk us out of living rent-free with someone who’s not an asshole…”

“You haven’t helped him become President though,” Grantaire pointed out. “The election is still a few days away.”

Sensing that her newly-found siblings were growing bored of the story and they hated the idea of standing around listening to political talk, Éponine ushered them out of the office, handing them her debit card so they could go to the cinema, to a café, or do whatever they wanted to do. She added a stern warning about not taking the piss with her card when she caught the roguish look lighting Gavroche’s eyes.

“As Thénardier does,” she carried on, sitting back in the chair, “he got cocky and then got tired of looking after the kids. I don’t think they were useful to him anymore. He turned to me and told me to take them. It was like he’d just stopped caring about them and his plan for some reason – I don’t know why and I didn’t want to stick around to found out.”

Grantaire fiddled with the corners of the file and shook his head, a look of fond despair on his face as he pursed his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or Dad? We could’ve helped you, or at least we would’ve understood why you decided to throw us under the bus. We would’ve supported you.”

If Grantaire hoped this simple fact she already knew would provoke an emotional response in her, he was very much mistaken. All she did was shrug her broad shoulders. “You were necessary casualties, and if I had to, I’d do it again. Sometimes the smaller victories matter more than the big ones.” She sat forward to tap the file Grantaire was still cradling, grinning with her tongue pressed against her pointed incisor. “But if you can take a big victory too, then all the better.”

The mayor glanced down at the file and then raised his eyebrow as he opened it, his interest finally piqued as Éponine sat grinning like the Cheshire cat.

He flipped through pages upon pages of bank statements, suspicious emails, and strange gaps in financial records, frowning as he went. “He’s been-“

“Stealing campaign funds,” Éponine finished eagerly, her chocolate eyes wide and excited. “He’s been embezzling millions, Grantaire!”

There was rising sense of dread and exhaustion in Grantaire’s chest. He rubbed his face with one hand, closed the file with the other and slid it back to her. “Why did you show me this? Look, whatever you’re planning, I don’t want to get involved,” he said, wearily. “I’ve had enough of leaking documents and getting embroiled in scandals. I’m trying to get my life together!” Grantaire let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve got a job that I love, I’m learning how to be in a relationship that I don’t have to hide, I’m looking at fucking apartments,” he sighed and then groaned at Éponine’s smirk. “Hell, I’ve even got this,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch. “So…yeah…I’m not getting involved. I’m trying to get an actual grown-up life.”

Éponine nodded slowly and took back the file, resting it delicately on her lap. “You don’t have to be involved and I’m not asking you to be, but I still thought you’d like to know.” She stood up and tucked the file under her arm. “I’m happy for you, Grantaire.”

Feeling a warmth flooding over his cheeks, Grantaire huffed and prepared to fire back something quick-witted and teasing. Something stopped him though, and instead, he just smiled. “Thank you. I’m happy for me too.”

“You should be. You did everything without having to ask for my guidance or following in my footsteps like you planned,” she pointed out. “I guess you never had to look at me for inspiration after all.”

Grantaire gave her a single nod, his smile slowly growing wider. “I suppose not…”

“Not to sound like a fourth-grader, but are we friends again?” Éponine asked, slipping a hand nervously into her pocket.

Grantaire wrinkled his nose, crossing his arms over his tight chest. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly. “I understand why you did it but I’m still angry with you for lying and publicly humiliating us…but I think I can stretch to having coffee with you on election morning.”

“I’ll pencil you in.”

“Bring the kids,” Grantaire suggested. “It’ll be nice to get to know them.”

Éponine grinned. “I’ll ask. Oh, I plan on releasing the financial records later today, so if you want to warn your Dad about it, you don’t have too much time.”

“I appreciate you letting me know,” he reiterated. When she was almost out the door, he called out, “it’s good to have you back, Éponine. We missed having you on the campaign.”

The words left her surprisingly misty-eyed as she went to find her siblings.

* * *

They decided not to go back to Maryland despite it only being a short drive. As much as Grantaire wanted to go back, he also wanted to stay and celebrate or commiserate, with the people who had voted him in. He wanted to be there for anyone in his District who might want guidance, advice, or cheering up after the result.

Thinking it was a great idea, Valjean decided to stay too, which was how they found themselves sitting at the dining table in the White House on election morning, wearing their best suits and being served breakfast by a good-intentioned Enjolras instead of having breakfast cooked by a professional chef at a hotel.

The pancakes were burned at the edges, lumpy, and almost raw in the middle. Enjolras gave Valjean his plate first, the Cosette, Marius, and finally, Grantaire, who kissed him when he saw that he’d used a mini heart-shaped cookie cutter to make a butter heart for his pancakes.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Valjean told him, pouring a little syrup over his plate.

“It was the least I could do,” Enjolras insisted, sitting next to Grantaire with a smile. “I want you to know how thankful I am. You didn’t have to let me stay here, especially since I might have inadvertently ruined today for you.”

Valjean shook his head. “Even if it might feel that way, you haven’t. Whatever happens tonight isn’t anyone’s fault, okay?” he looked around the table, so it didn’t feel like he was singling Enjolras or Grantaire out, which they were grateful for.

“Well, after the Financial Scandal, I feel like you and Thénardier are back on even footing now,” Cosette said through a grimace and a mouthful of food. “Which is weird. I mean, these _scandals_ don’t feel even at all. Would you rather vote for the guy who doesn’t know anything about politics and who stole millions from the country he’s vying to lead or the guy with the son who fell in love and is helping to take down a dictator?”

The kids nodded in agreement as Valjean chewed with the calm austerity of a highland cow. “Whatever happens, happens. We’ll still keep trying to make changes in the world wherever we’re living and whatever our roles are.”

“I’m quietly confident,” Marius piped up. “It’s highly likely that Grantaire’s coming out and battle cry for the minorities in this country might have struck a chord with people and made them feel represented.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “But I also encouraged them not to base their votes on me and my actions. I know there will still be people who will vote based on that, but…even if they didn’t, our policies might sink like a stone.”

“And that’s exactly what we faced last time,” Valjean countered, smiling as though nothing could ever be wrong. His smile made Grantaire and Cosette feel like they were children being told how brave they were after they scraped their knees at the playground. “We can do it again.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while before Musichetta came barrelling in with her wild, coiled hair straining against her hairband and her clipboard tucked into the crook of her arm. She dropped the board on the kitchen counter and poured herself what looked like a pint of coffee before running through the day’s order of business: when their press opportunities would be and when their rally would begin. She also reminded them of personal events such as Fantine’s arrival at five-thirty after she finished work and that the plane from Paris would be touching down at seven.

“And then, in the early hours of the morning when all of this is over,” she said, leaning against the counter, “I’m going to drink a whole bottle of wine and sleep for a week.”

Valjean laughed and started to clear the table of both empty plates and left-over food, ushering Enjolras back into his seat when he tried to help. “You deserve the break, ‘Chetta,” he said over the running water of the sink, rinsing the plates before he put them in the dishwasher. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us for the past four years.”

Musichetta grinned and stared pointedly at Grantaire. “Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve survived this long and still look this good. You know, Bossuet wasn’t bald before he met you, Grantaire.”

In response, Grantaire flipped his middle finger at her with a wink. He then kissed Enjolras and his father goodbye, ready for his meeting with Éponine, Azelma, and Gavroche.

* * *

It was nearing six when Grantaire finally got to stand in the booth himself, tapping his fingers against one another, his heart so far in his throat he could feel it lodged under his soft palate. It was an obvious and easy decision to make, but it still felt difficult in a way he didn’t expect. It was difficult to know that he wouldn’t see his father’s name on the ballot again next time. He wanted to savour it and the hope it represented.

He picked up the stylus and stared at his ballot, pressing his tongue against the back of his front teeth as he selected, VALJEAN, JEAN and PONTMERCY, GEORGES.

The machine accepted his vote with the whirr of an overheating laptop, unaware of who he was and the things he’d done. To the machine, he was just a momentary piece of data.

Grantaire remembered the last election day as if it were yesterday. He’d been a few weeks shy of twenty-one, dead set on graduating with a job offer from the same law firm as Mabeuf, and he’d just gotten his first suit tailored for the election result. He remembered feeling so debonair and alive as he took to the stage alongside his father and sister, the people of Maryland cheering them on and chanting their names. They’d won Maryland by over sixty percent of the votes, so it was no surprise that it felt like half of the state had turned out to congratulate them.

Despite the cheering in Maryland, Grantaire couldn’t help but feel betrayed by his home state of Texas, who had voted against his father with a majority of fifty-two per cent. He wasn’t expecting a win there – he was well aware of their voting record – but a small part of him hoped they would recognise him as one of his own and vote for Valjean so they could watch Grantaire walk into the White House and make something of himself.

This year, they were projected to take Maryland and Washington DC by storm once again whilst Texas…well, no-one could be completely sure about them. Although they were predicted to vote Republican again, the percentage prediction had fallen considerably since last time.

As soon as Grantaire’s toes pounded against the grass as he left the booth, Bossuet and Cosette were smartly at his side – he in a dark suit so any accidental food or drink stains were less likely to be noticed, her in a pink tweed skirt and blazer combo and a white blouse, her hair in a neat ponytail to make her look every inch like the intelligent and demure girl-next-door.

“I know it’s way too early to be reading exit polls and people’s guesses,” Bossuet said, following Grantaire down the street, “but it looks like we’ve got California.”

Grantaire nodded, grateful for Bossuet’s positive energy. “That was to be expected. If we lost California, then we might as well wave the white flag now. I think we’re on track so far…” his voice fell flat as he scrolled through his own phone, his skin prickling underneath the warm grey suit. “Hmm…I don’t think I like the look of Wisconsin though.”

From behind them, Cosette gave both men a gentle swipe to the backs of their heads. “Let’s not do this now. Why don’t we head to our election soiree early? I asked ‘Chetta if we could get daiquiris.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Grantaire decided. “I think Éponine could do with a few daiquiris – she’s had a tough day so far.”

Bossuet made a sympathetic sound as they walked to the community centre, the three of them occasionally waving and smiling for paparazzi, and ignoring anyone who asked them questions about Enjolras, King Louis or the leaked documents.

“I heard about everyone booing her when she arrived at the polling booth,” Bossuet said. “Not gonna lie, I feel bad for her. No one else knows why she did it, you know? She’s just going let the public keep thinking she’s a sell-out and that she took the money Thénardier offered and ran.”

She and a Grantaire had discussed the issue over coffee this morning and she was adamant not to tell the truth to the public, mostly to protect Gavroche and Azelma from unnecessary media attention. After the financial scandal led to him staring down the barrel of a federal investigation, Thénardier was unlikely to tell the truth about the child he abandoned or the ones he practically sold for political gain. Éponine was more than happy with this arrangement: she was thick-skinned enough to withstand the public’s vitriol, she was hard-working enough to earn back their trust, Azelma and Gavroche were back with her where they belonged, and regardless of what the day’s outcome was, her ‘father’ would be under investigation. Even though the outcome of that investigation would probably be vastly different depending on whether he became president, it would still be good for her to watch him squirm.

“She’s a tough cookie,” Grantaire said, holding open the door of the community centre for Cosette and Bossuet. “I have every faith in her to be able to handle it her way.”

Inside there was already a hubbub of activity: Musichetta was setting up the large fabric screen and connecting the projector to her laptop so everyone could watch the results roll in, Gavroche and Azelma were playing table tennis in the corner, Joly and Enjolras were laughing together as they set up a trestle table with snacks and drinks, and Éponine and Javert were setting out chairs. Valjean was nowhere to be seen.

“I take it the alcohol isn’t ready yet?” Grantaire said, coming up behind Enjolras and wrapping his arms around his waist, kissing his shoulder. “Cosette is after daquiris already,” he teased.

Cosette harrumphed and lifted her chin as she began to open a pack of paper napkins. “I get cravings for rum when I’m nervous!”

“That’s understandable,” Enjolras nodded sagely, craning his neck over his shoulder and Grantaire’s to look at Cosette. “When I’m nervous, I want to eat a lot of soft cheese.”

Joly laughed but then pretended to be serious, which was difficult for him when he was wearing a pink Hawaiian shirt printed with dinosaurs and looked a lot like a Dad on vacation. “As a doctor, I do not recommend rum or cheese as coping mechanisms,” he said matter-of-factly. “As your friend, I do however recommend sour gummy worms,” he grinned, pulling a little pack of them from his jeans pocket, all of them warm and sticky.

“You nervous by any chance?” Bossuet asked, kissing the top of Joly’s head. “You know we’re going to spend time together regardless of tonight’s result, don’t you?”

“I know,” Joly shrugged. “But I love the idea of being able to work with you and ‘Chetta in the same building for once.”

Grantaire beamed wickedly and let one arm fall away from Enjolras to poke Joly in the shoulder. “And because it means you get to hang out with me more, right?”

“That’s the one downside to the job,” Cosette retorted before floating off towards Éponine and Javert for a proper catch-up with them.

Joly stared pointedly at Grantaire and Enjolras, feigning a sternness he didn’t feel. “Speaking of working and spending time together,” he began, pushing together his thin eyebrows, “next time you two decide to embroil my boyfriend in international espionage and treason, I think I’d like to be told!”

From behind him, Bossuet blushed as Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged sheepish glances. “In all fairness, I didn’t do much, honey…”

Joly held up a steady hand to silence Bossuet, grinning now. “I’d like to be told so I can join in next time. No one ever suspects the short guy with one leg,” he added shrewdly.

The four of them all burst into laughter, making everyone else briefly turn to look at them.

“I think we can manage that,” Enjolras decided. “Although, I don’t think there’s going to be any more treason for a while…but I’ll still add you to the group chat, just in case,” he promised him.

Clearing his throat, Bossuet pointed across the room. “If we’re getting you involved, babe, we’re going to have to ask ‘Chetta to get involved too…because she will eventually find out what we’re doing and go berserk.”

“She’s a formidable woman,” Grantaire agreed. “So, I think she’s worth having in our corner.”

Enjolras smiled. “Even so, I’m not asking her,” he said seriously. “I’m more scared of her than I am the King…mostly because I actually have some respect for Musichetta.”

“Whilst you three recruit another Avenger,” Grantaire said, kissing Enjolras’ cheek and unwinding his arms from him, “I’m going to find Dad. Does anyone know where he’s gone?”

He was directed out of the main hall and towards a small meeting room by the centre’s kitchen. As he walked past the two mini-fridges stacked on top of one another and the worn-out stove, he made a note to have them replaced with appliances more suitable.

Sitting at the opposite end of the office was Valjean as promised, staring down at swathes of paper with his Parker pen in hand, his wire glasses so far down his nose they were close to falling off. Grantaire almost didn’t want to disturb him he looked so focused. But he also saw the tense set of his rock-hard shoulders, the ones that used to carry him through the park as a child, and the unsure quiver of the top lip that helped his mouth to speak so passionately.

“What are you working on?” Grantaire asked softly.

“My speech,” Valjean said, sliding the glasses from his face to better expose the dark circles under his eyes.

“I thought you’d finished it?”

“Not that one,” Valjean said tiredly. “I’m working on my concession speech.”

Grantaire frowned and balled his fists at his side, shaking his head so his curls bounced and swayed. “Why? You’re not going to need a concession speech!” His face grew red as he tried to cope with the realisation that even his father was half-convinced that they would lose. “We’re doing this for four more years, okay?! You can’t give up.”

Valjean smiled from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t be childish, sweetheart. You should know better than anyone that anything can happen and it’s best to be prepared. It’s not the same as giving up and I’m disappointed that you think I would.” He put his pen down and tilted his head. “We might lose, Grantaire, that’s just a fact.”

“But according to the exit polls, we’re going to take Michigan and Pennsylvania!”

“Exit polls aren’t always right,” Valjean pointed out. “North Carolina and Ohio are still too close to call and nothing is certain,” he repeated. “Why don’t you go and spend time with your friends and your sister? Fantine will be here soon and so will Enjolras’ friends. Enjoy yourself as much as you can and let me concentrate on what I need to, okay?”

Grantaire nodded, grinding his molars together and feeling oddly chastised. “Okay…I love you, Dad.”

Putting his glasses back on, Valjean smiled. “I love you too, mijo.”

* * *

The atmosphere in the hall had become, at best, glum. Valjean was stood behind the sofa nibbling his bottom lip whilst Grantaire and Cosette sat beside their significant others in front of him. Cosette was sipping her fourth daiquiri through a straw, slumped back, and being comforted by Marius and her mother.

Every few minutes, Grantaire answered a question from one of the confused Frenchmen sitting on plastic chairs, looking at the screen intently.

“What’s the Electoral College?” Jehan asked.

“Why can’t you just go by the popular vote?” Feuilly wondered.

“Is this why you were so happy about getting California?” Bahorel said after.

“So why does everyone look so sad now?” Courfeyrac whispered. “There are still loads of states to go.”

Combeferre nodded, gazing at the screen with his chin in his hand. “Whilst most of the larger Electoral College states have already declared for Valjean, so many of the states with smaller colleges have gone red. The small states might balance out the large ones…” he added uncertainly, looking to the Americans for approval of his explanation.

“Grantaire, sweetheart,” Valjean said absently as he took his phone from his pocket – Georges Pontmercy was calling from Washington State. “Can you go out there and say a few words? I need to take this.”

Feeling his stomach drop into his feet, Grantaire sat up sharply to look at his father. “But I don’t have anything prepared!”

“You’re the mayor,” he said easily, turning away. “You’ll think of something.”

Without any memory of how, which was mildly concerning, Grantaire suddenly found himself stood on the stage outside the community centre, staring at a sea of faces, most of which he now recognised and spoke to regularly. The spotlight hurt his eyes as it landed on him and he mentally said to himself ‘be yourself. It’s worked up until now.’

At least it was comforting to know that he had so many supporters cheering him on on the ground and in the wings.

“Hi,” he said, pulling on a confident face as he spoke into the microphone. “I’m Grantaire, and, if you don’t know me, I’m your mayor and your First Son.” The crowd cheered and clapped for him, making his heart dance. “If you do know me, and you’re sick of watching me make speeches, then don’t worry, I promise I won’t be long.”

His audience laughed with him. With him. Not at him.

“As I look at the current results, the changes in our political landscape, and the states yet to declare,” here, he thought about Texas and felt his eyes beginning to sting with the threat of tears, “I am reminded of this moment four years ago when I was nothing more than a kid. A kid who probably had ideas above his station, or at least, that’s how the old government saw me.” He stopped for a moment before continuing, praying for the right words to come. “But _this_ government made me feel like I could do anything, like I know it’s done for many of you.”

At this, the crowd let their agreement show in another chorus of whoops and shouts. He smiled and relished the familiar glow of contentment in his belly.

“At this moment four years ago, we were facing a similar map…redder than we would have liked…but we still won against all odds. America, you asked us to make a change back then, and we’ve asked you to keep having faith in us. We believe in you as much as you believe in us,” he said earnestly. “However, if we do find ourselves in a result that we don’t want, we’ll never stop believing in you. We’ll never stop fighting for you and we’ll always be in your corner because you were in ours. If there’s one thing we all believe in, it’s-“

“Justice for all!” cried the crowd with him, raising their banners and flags into the air.

“You were great,” Enjolras told him as he left the stage, sliding his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you.”

Grantaire hugged him back and breathed in the warm, comforting scent of his aftershave. “Has Texas declared yet?”

“No,” Enjolras said apologetically, “but Georgia did, and they’ve gone blue.”

By ten-thirty, results were coming in thick and fast, leaving everyone sitting on the edge of their seats and groaning into their drinks, everyone except Gavroche, that is, who was fast asleep under Éponine’s coat on a second sofa.

Thénardier secured Tennessee, Indiana, and West Virginia, and everything felt a little more hopeless.

By midnight, fate changed again, and the Democrats had taken the lead, so things were starting to feel more like a party - though they all knew that the danger hadn’t completely passed. Éponine and Javert handed out more drinks, both glancing up at the screen as they poured from cold wine bottles, watching the silver-haired reporter as he announced that Thénardier had won Nevada. The room erupted into a series of heckles, grumbles, gasps, and curses.

The Americans became subdued in an instant and the party careened to a stop, giving the French something akin to whiplash as they followed suit.

“What’s happening?” Enjolras whispered to Grantaire. “Why is that state so important?”

“It means we’re tied,” Grantaire said, going white as he stared at the map on the screen and the few grey states left. “With all the other results taken into account, whoever wins Texas wins the presidency.”

Enjolras snaked a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder and squeezed it. From beside them, Jehan tried to remain optimistic. “You can do it,” he said. “You’re one of them, right? I’m sure they’re going to support you.”

He chewed his bottom lip and shook his head, glancing at his father who was hugging Cosette and kissing her on the top of her head, trying not to look as forlorn as he felt.

“That didn’t happen last time,” Grantaire said regretfully. “Texas hasn’t voted Democrat since 1976 and it’s highly unlikely that they’ll start now, especially since I’ve just been involved in a gay sex scandal.”

Around him, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Feuilly all deflated. Everyone gravitated to the middle of the room, joining each other in a huddle and trying to comfort one another without speaking the words into existence.

“I’m sorry, mi amor,” Enjolras muttered to Grantaire. “I hope there’s a miracle.”

Grantaire smiled, though the action didn’t quite reach his exhausted eyes. “Me too.”

As they whispered to one another and Valjean unfolded his concession speech from his jacket pocket, the political correspondent began to announce the Texan results, and the screen turned from gormless grey into a bold and beautiful blue.

There was a split second of silence before the room went wild. Shouting, screaming, jumping, punching the air and the glorious chorus of four more years ringing in stereo from inside and outside the building.

The noise startled and woke Gavroche, making him fall to the floor as Valjean pulled his kids and Fantine close, all four of them breaking into relieved sobs and giggles.

Someone unseen cut a cord at the back of the hall, and balloons fell from the ceiling in a shower of confetti and streamers.

On the TV, the news showed the scenes from Maryland, DC, and Texas, and Grantaire could hardly believe what he was seeing. There were people in the crowds wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the words ALWAYS HAVE AN ACCOMPLICE and signs and banners were bearing his father’s name. People were crying with joy, makeup and face paint running down their faces.

As soon as Valjean had let go of Grantaire to find his victory speech, Enjolras threw himself at him, putting his hands to Grantaire’s face and kissing him as if it were the end of a movie, both of them smiling so wide, the kiss barely happened, which was just as well because everyone inside was spilling out into the open air and President Jean Valjean had been pushed on to the stage.

* * *

**EXCERPT: PRESIDENT JEAN VALJEAN’S VICTORY ADDRESS FROM WASHINGTON D.C, 2020.**

Four years ago, you put your faith in me for the first time and I’m honoured that you have chosen to do so once again.

Four years ago, you saw this country and the failings of the previous government and you saw what this country could be. You saw the potential and you chose to change the political landscape. You chose a man with a checkered history, an unconventional family that came from multiple walks of life and you chose us to represent you, to represent those who hadn’t felt represented before. You let me and my family begin four years of progress, and tonight, you’ve chosen me, and them, to do it again.

For this, and so much more, we humbly thank you.

For the next four years, and the years beyond, we promise to do everything we can to continue emphasising your voices and making you proud.

* * *

There were more confetti, balloons, and streamers falling, but on the stage this time, when Grantaire took Enjolras’ hand and led him back inside, his knees weak underneath him. His smile was strong and crooked and Enjolras was close to tears.

“Thank god for America and their miracles,” Enjolras said, squeezing his hand.

“I think I might be speechless for the first time in my life,” Grantaire said, gesturing for Enjolras to help him move the main sofa towards the wall so they could create a dance floor.

Smirking and pushing the couch the last few centimetres, Enjolras said, “now there’s the real miracle.”

“This whole year has been somewhat of a miracle,” Grantaire reflected, glancing behind him as everyone began to file back into the room, ready to party and let their hair down before the next four years officially began.

When it was nearing dawn, the music began to wind down and Enjolras and Grantaire were slow dancing with Cosette and Marius doing the same behind them. Éponine had left hours ago with her exhausted and jubilant siblings who were more than ready for bed, no matter how much they protested otherwise.

Courfeyrac and Jehan were dancing too, showing Combeferre some of their unconventional moves and laughing at his awkward movements. Meanwhile, Joly and Musichetta tended to a drunk and dizzy Bossuet, and Bahorel and Feuilly were giggling together on the sofa, occasionally whispering something into one another’s ears.

“Your Dad looks so happy,” Enjolras noted with a tired smile.

And it was true. Valjean was dancing with Fantine, spinning her on the floor with as much grace and elegance as a middle-aged man with no dance experience could. Javert was watching them from the second sofa, clapping and cheering for his friend, clearly grateful they’d be able to carry on with their work on prison reforms.

“He deserves to be happy,” Grantaire said, watching his father as he clumsily caught Fantine after another wobbly spin. “Although, I think you should give him some dance lessons of his own, just in case he tries to do that with any foreign diplomats or royalty.”

The word was like the Bat-Signal lighting up the sky because no sooner had Grantaire uttered the word ‘royalty’, did Enjolras’ new phone begin to ping wildly from his trouser pocket. Across the room, more pinging was heard from the phones of the French.

“What’s going on?” Grantaire asked with a frown, noticing the look of surprise on Enjolras’ face as he read the push notification, and how the others all looked to him with the same confused expression. But, after a split second, the confusion grew into smiles.

“I think it’s time for me to go home for a little while,” Enjolras announced, showing Grantaire his phone screen.

**THE ‘CHILDREN OF LIBERTY’ STORM THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES.**

Grantaire went slack-jawed before bursting into nervous and excited laughter. “Was the King inside the palace at the time?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “But I think it’s time I went back and supported the people publicly.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Grantaire pointed out. “You might get hurt if the people are revolting against the royals like that. You might have renounced your titles, but legally you still have them.”

Enjolras nodded and squeezed Grantaire’s fingers. “I know. But I have one of the biggest political powerhouses on my side and a ragtag group of revolutionaries ready to commit treason again,” he grinned.

“Do you have to go now?” Grantaire asked, his smile fading slightly.

“No,” Enjolras decided as he looked around the room at his friends and the family who had taken him under their wings. “No, it can wait until the morning. You know, reasonable hours morning. I want to keep enjoying today for a few more hours.” He slipped his arms around Grantaire’s waist and shoulders and lead them into a gentle sway to the dying music.

“A few more hours,” Grantaire agreed, gently pressing his forehead against Enjolras’. “For the sake of forever.”

“I can’t wait,” Enjolras admitted, pressing his warm lips to Grantaire’s, feeling more at home than he’d felt in a long time.

Grantaire grinned, spinning Enjolras as he’d taught him how to on their last day in Miami. “Me neither.”

“I should tell the others I’ll be coming home with them.”

“I’m sure they already know,” Grantaire argued, pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ neck. He pulled back sharply, a sparkle in his eyes. “Hey, come with me on an adventure for a little while?”

“Where?”

“You’ll see,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras by the hand and quickly pulling him out of the building before anyone could stop them and ask what was going on. They bundled into a taxi and drove half an hour into Maryland.

Enjolras followed Grantaire over a rocky foothill, the sound of the river rushing closer to them with every step. Birds sang their morning song and the air was clean and fresh with the scent of late autumn. A squirrel ran across their path and dove into a nearby bush.

“My favourite spot on the Potomac River,” Grantaire announced as he reached the riverbank. The splash from the rushing water sprayed on to his shoes as Enjolras gripped his hand, both looking out at the gentle landscape.

The sun was beginning to rise, casting the sky and river in a candy pink and golden honey glow – it was as though Grantaire himself had picked up his paintbrush and crafted the sky from watercolours. The rocks by their feet were already soaking up what little heat they could glean from the sunshine whilst the insects started to move and go about their day.

Over the river, they could see the other bank and its deserted space except for a few trees and the small, distant silhouette of a house – smoke rising from the chimney.

Even though most of the foliage was bare and the flowers were dead, there was an air of magic about the area that took Enjolras’ breath away. It was pastoral, new, and utterly beautiful – even the sun rising over the horizon felt metaphorical.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras gasped, staring up at the sky as the final few stars seemed to blink out of existence.

Grantaire nodded, staring at Enjolras’ childlike wonder rather than the sky or the river. “So beautiful,” he agreed, smiling softly. “When you get to come back from France a completely free man, I’m going to bring you here again for a date night. I wanted you to see it before you left, so you’d have a reason to come back.”

“I’ve already got a good reason to come back,” Enjolras said, turning his head to meet Grantaire’s soft gaze. "Just make sure you leave space for my toothbrush in your new place.”

“They haven’t accepted my offer yet,” Grantaire countered, running his thumb over Enjolras’ knuckles.

Enjolras shrugged and looked at the sky again as a bird sliced through the air. “They will…” he said distractedly.

"Are you okay?" Grantaire murmured.

“Yeah, I am,” Enjolras said honestly. “I just don’t know what to expect when I land in Paris…I might be gone longer than we both want me to be.”

“I know,” Grantaire answered easily, lifting their hands to kiss Enjolras’ knuckles this time. “If you need help, you can always give your Avengers a call and we’ll come running.”

Enjolras snorted. “Thanks.”

“I’ll always follow you,” Grantaire said, feeling as though he were opening his heart for the first time. “I’ve never loved anyone as I love you – like Orpheus, I’d follow you to Hell and back…but I’ll always make sure I’m looking forward. I don’t want to lose you again.”

Enjolras’ lips twitched into a smile and he squeezed his hand. “I love you too. There’s no one else I’d rather go hand in hand through Hell with...but I’ll miss you on the journey.”

“I’ll come when you ask. Every time.”

As they always did, their lips found one another as their souls had been destined to do. They savoured the feel of each other's warm skin against the cool morning air, the sweet scent of alcohol mixed with adrenaline-filled sweat and aftershave, and the sound of their hearts beating in time with one another as the sun finally finished its ascent into the sky and bathed them both in gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this little story! This is my first Les Mis fic and I was nervous to post it...but you've all been lovely! Again, thank you for reading, and commenting - especially those of you who commented on every chapter - you have no idea how much the support and feedback means! I really hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I did writing! 
> 
> If you did like this fic, please consider following me on tumblr (@annaobyrne) - I'd love to talk to some you a bit more! <3


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